




^ 



^ V' 

S ^ ^ ^C)^ V I B ’C' ® ^ ^ 0 0 

rO ^ 'i^ ** ^ 

f^»'- 

I vO t- " <H -r:^ " ^ 

r\ -'^* cf;V ''a 

'• O^ If . . „ , . 3 N 0 

v\ _ 

t c: 





%*--»’o^\-",%*“’ v'\ 

'^s- 'i^'*’ ' ^Jh \,. <^' ' 



'\ 


® A^‘ */^- ^ 

- . 'p^ ^ ^ ^ 

^ \ 

>- 



N' '^'j “'*0 V-*- 

^ c 

. s ^ -O 

<* .> . 


x0o<. 


. „ , 'Tf. ■ ' 

r;?/', <f^V \V’ 

* nJ/ ' j ^ 


'' A. ' ' * -? 

v’ -f 






^ "* T . ^ > O^ a. '* * 0 /, '^. 

■^ - ^ ->X ^ a «»0 

A) o <>''^ o 

^V <p^ " r' ^ 

L‘i 


' x*‘ A ■ %'•<. 

' A ^ o .V 


" .» % 

'* ^ 0 * K^ \ 

“ * ro - ^ ' * « <<- 

r^ >- yw/a-> ^ 4'"^ 







Cy O V 

°.t. » . I , 

f ^ v'wjis^v 


. A ■ 

0 N 0 ^ '</> 

> ^ 0 ^ ^ ^ 

‘ % :Mik% 

^ AXW-*^ VI/, , 1^ ^ 

C. 

V ° 

• t<’ u 



•V 



^ ^ O.V 

O ^-V ^ s'"'' 'O 0 0. y'*' 

^o 0 ® ^ ^N 

Ik '' - ^ ^ 'P, v"^ 



.-^ * 

A' < 

^ ^ V 

-i -<• 

^ ^ ^ C> ^ 

^ 3 mO^ kV s 

. > . 0 ‘ ^ ^ * 0 /■ 

^ 3 A A* 

® 4^ ^ 

* z > ? 



TtIT'' 

rP^ V 


■^oo^ 


o- 

o5 

|w V « 

f. .> „ 

O ^ S • > , '>;,* = ~ » » 

^ v'l^'V . a- 4- 

* ■’%■ c'^'^ * 


s .V 

' 


<L >* yA^^XST » 

- S, S -1 , 

-o ' “ • ‘ ■* aN 0 c . 



S>"V 

«<>■ 


%AfW\x^ ^ 

X s '' '' 

.0' 






V' 


ft 

1|?X — — \ .\>i ^ 

" “i.^ %. 

« 






^ *V -.^ 

y 




.( A 


X ^ 0 o ». 









- 4^I|W 

w^ 

• J 


% 



t %^iA 




I 


ti 











LIFE’S PROMISE TO PAY. 


A NOVEL. 


BY ^ 

CLARA L. CONWAY. 

<» 


“ Our subtlest analysis of schools and sects must miss the essential 
truths, unless it be lit up by the love that sees in all forms of human 
thought and work the life and death struggles of separate human 
^ beings.” 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1876. 

■ N' 



-^v> 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 




JOINTLY INSCRIBED 
TO 

CHARLES KORTRECHT, ESQ., 

AND 

MRS. MARY DOYLE CANNAVAN. 


Tho’ the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 
Your kindness.” 




i i * 



\ * 




$ 

$ 



t ♦ • ? 


4 



» 


S 




» 

% 

•. % 




• » 


« , 
• f 



• « • 


•i 


# 




!• 

< 







\ 






9 «W 



I 




« 




* # 







\ 


/ 


*/ 


I 


i 


« 




/ 



I 


4 


tf * 





f 


% 


4 


4 


/ 



k» 


4 


A 


4 





♦ 


9 


s 







4 


s# ^ 

^ « 





« » 

i 


^ . 
k . 


.’A 




4 



I 


4 


C 


« 

> 

i 




4 



t 


> . 












9 




•% 


'I 



9 ’ 


V 


» 


* 


' I 


« 


» 


. 1 




% 






I 




• . 



f 



4 


t 


9 


4 


t 



V 


« ^ 

t 



I 


» » 


A < 


044 



0 


p 



4 • 



r 

> 


9 • 




« 


•.’C 


• •- 



•t 

. f 



^ 4 a ^ 




- * 


» 






* •. 


V‘ . 

.' ' . 


<* 



; 


•s 

\ • 


i f 


u 



.b 


« 


4 





4 






4 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK I. 

'^RUTH GLEANING.” 

CHAPTER page 

1. — “ Peace, be Still” . 9 

II. — Ten Years Gone By 13 

III. — After. Darkness, Light 14 

IV. — The Light of Love 20 

V. — A Deserted Throne 23 

VI. — Afternoon Dreams 26 

VII. — Unrest 28 

VIII. — Nature’s Gloom 30 

IX. — Recognition 32 

X. — De Profundis 35 

XL — Here and There 37 

XII. — A Moral Corollary ....... 39 

XIII. — Life’s First I. O. U . .41 

XIV. — Drifts 45 

XV. — The Thorn of the June Rose 46 

BOOK II. 

AMONG THE REAPERS. 

XVI. — Ruth’s Letter 49 

XVII.— Midnight . ' 52 

XVIII. — Questionings 54 

XIX.— My Lady’s Lord 57 


5 


6 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XX. — SunUghted Dreams . 6i 

XXI. — Fred Von Arsdel 66 

XXII. — A New Acquaintance 69 

XXill. — Lester Lockhart • 75 

XXIV. — Crowned with Autumn Leaves . . . -77 

XXV. — “ Indefinable Boundary-Lines” . . . .85 

XXVI. — Under Cover 8 

XXVII.—” Stille Liebe” 93 

XXVIII.— Two Tides 96 

XXIX. — Under the Stars 100 

XXX. — Analytic 103 

BOOK III. 

GOLDEN GRAIN. 

XXXI. — Autumn Roses 106 

XXXII.— Page 83 no 

XXXIII. — A Song of Gladness and of Sorrow. . , . 117 

XXXIV. — Heart-Echoes > . . . . ' . . . 120 

XXXV. — ” Dona Nobis Pacem” ' . 122 

XXXVI.— Marah ! 129 

XXXVII. — Bitter Waters Sweetened 133 

XXXVIII. — Benedicite 144 

XXXIX.— Niagara 148 

XL. — Lady Dedlock 152 

XLI. — Snow . . . . • 15s 

XLII. — Miserere 157 

BOOK IV. 

GATHERED. 

XLIIL— Here! . 161 

XLIV. — One Year Ago 164 

XLV. — A Stern Tutor, and Ill-Learned Lessons . . . 168 

XLVI. — Weak, but Growing 171 


CONTENTS. 


7 


!’/ CHAPTER 

: XLVIL— A Well-Kept P’romise 

I, XLVIIL — Adair McDowell 
1 XLIX.— The Next Day . 

I L. — Adair’s Flock . 

, LI. — A Summer Afternoon 

LI I. — Gone to Protest 
LIU. — Lengthening Shadows 


PAGE 

• 175 

. 178 
. 182 
. 191 
. . 207 

. 214 
. . 220 


BOOK V. 


GARNERED. 


LIV. — Lester Lockhart’s Letter . 
LV. — Imperative Demands . 

LVI. — Mother and Son . 

LVII. — A Paradox in Character 
LVIII. — Winter Sunshine 
LIX. — Argumentative . 


LX. — “ Tidings of Great Joy” 

LXI. — The Altar of Sacrifice 
LXII. — Little Maggie . . 1 . 

LXI 11. — Amid Darkness .... 

LX IV. — ‘‘ The Beating of our Own Hearts” 
LXV. — After-Thoughts .... 
LXVI. — The Carnival Time ... 

LXVII. — The Pursuing Phantom 
LXVIIL— The Skeleton Uncoffined . 

LXIX. — Light amid Darkness, and Darkness a 
LXX. — ” After Many Days” . 

■ Finale 


mid Light 


223 

227 

231 

234 

237 

241 

245 

250 

255 

262 

266 

272 

275 

278 

280 

288 

291 

294 



- • % 


I 






♦ 


I 


ft 







4-^ 


# 




* 




< 





I 


» 



« I 


« 




• • 



* 




V 


4 




' .* 
« »• 




fcV 


I-* 


s 


« 






4 


• i 
I • 






t. 



• v 


k’ 


«i 


« 


» 




* 


« 


. 4 * 



I 


\ 



t • 

• • 

♦ 

♦ ^ • 

» 

• 4 • , • 



• T 


/ 

« 




*• 









r- / / 




% 


4 


% 




4 


, * 


a 




» 


« 





4 


•K 

• « 

:.l 





4 



LIFE’S PROMISE TO PAY. 


BOOK I. 

“RUTH GLEANING.” 

“ So she gleaned in the field until even.” 


CHAPTER I. 

“peace, be still.” 

The gale was high, 

The sea was all a boiling, seething froth, 

And God Almighty’s guns were going off, 

And the land trembled. 

Miss Ingelow. 

“Those ugly wrinkles spoil your face, my pretty 
sea. Why do you frown so?” A soft voice spoke an 
unheeded expostulation ; a girlish face was pressed 
against the window, to look out upon an angry sea. 

The low, surging plash, plash, of the ebbing wave 
had changed its even cadence to a sullen growl ; slender 
threads of light seaming the surface of the water sud- 
denly widened into silver bands — flashed athwart vault- 
ing billows and into blackening valleys. The angry 
murmur hushed itself into a low, deep moan, then rose 
into a fierce, wrathful shriek — a wild, maddened howl. 
Dense masses of darkening clouds hurried together 


lO 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


from all parts of the heavens but one : in the west, 
a broken trail of light displayed its golden beauty 
through rifts of gray and ragged cloud, and cast “the 
pattern of its glory” upon a quivering sea; an ashen 
face was irradiated by the momentary gleam ; darkness 
took on a bit of light. One piling mountain of cloud 
lent its outer edge to be adorned by a purplish scallop, 
bound in gold ; then, as if in anger for its weakness, 
cast away the pretty bauble, and hurried on to meet 
a scowling cloud that seemed to say, “You’ve been 
dallying !” 

Soon no sign of peace was left in heaven ; the golden 
streak paled and was lost behind a mountain of moving 
blackness. 

A vessel wrestled with the storm. 

The gurgling swash ! swash ! of the fretted waves spoke 
their discontent. Angry gusts spun and whisked about 
their tops ; sinuous streaks of greenish light flashed 
across the blackness above, and dipped their forked 
ends into the blackness below. A crash ! A roaring 
sea ! Another flash, and— the ship had gained upon 
the storm. 

The sea moaned out a low, passionate wail of expos- 
tulation, as if to say, “ Mercy! Mercy! Peace!” The 
heavens heard not ; or hearing, heeded not. Lurid 
gleams of yellowness shot here — danced there — sped 
everywhere — streaking — flashing — dazzling. Lines of 
green darted in and out — above*^^ — across — below the 
blackness, casting a scintillant pattern upon a throb- 
bing waste of gray. 

Upleaping billows met the sheets of water that 
hurled themselves obliquely from out the down-reach- 


** PEACE, BE still: 


ing darkness. There was no sky now : below, a quiver- 
ing waste; above, its counterpart* 

What an angry face you wear, my pretty sea! Fie, 
for shame ! How can I love you more ? To-morrow, 
when your face is flushed with rosy streaks, will you 
tell me why you did so? Yes? Then, good-night, 
my pet ! The darkness and the rain hide you from 
me : I can only see that the ship has gained the 
harbor.” 

The girFs beauty was of that uncertain type which 
required favoring circumstances for its perfect develop- 
ment. There are faces to which happiness gives beauty; 
those of the dolorosa cast assimilate more closely the 
beauty of the spirituelle,'^ under the intensifying, 
effect of sorrow. Ruth De Harte’s face was of neither 
kind ; its beauty was of a type more unpronounced. At 
all times her face was a study; at some, a model of 
exquisite beauty. In a crowd, perhaps one would not 
turn to catch a second glimpse of her face, unless the 
essential conditions — a happy thought or glad inspira- 
tion — evoked its best expression. In a crowd, one would 
turn more than once, and be still, to hear again the 
music of her voice. 

In all this city, and the country round about, 
there’s nothing like it. God help the man when she 
spakes to him like that!” Irish Bessie had said, not 
many days before. '^Sure an’ if the daisy could spake, 
it’s a voice like that it’d have.” 

She’s a pretty bit of a thing that’ll turn men’s 
heads,” said did Madge, the neighborhood oracle. 

Fools they’d be, indeed, to let their heads be 
turned by a young babbling thing like that !” spoke 


12 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


Priscilla Sower, whose bits of bright-colored ribbon 
told of pretensions not yet surrendered, though ten 
years had passed since her last conquest renounced his 
allegiance for a fairer rival. 

“Is’t the likes o’ ye that ’ud make ’em mad, d’ye 
think? Does the men like to bethink themselves of a 
undertaker’s sign when they looks at a woman’s face ? 
Indade an’ they don’t, at all; it’s smiles and dimples 
and pretty looks that goes to their heart, every God’s 
love o’ ’em. So kape your tongue still, Prissie Sower, 
and if ye wants a husband, — an’ it’s well I know it, — 
ask Miss Rooth to learn ye the way to smile. Do ye 
hear me now?” 

‘‘I do, and I think that if the men are fools, they 
don’t want for company.” »■ 

*‘God forbid! for ye’re own sake, dear! I likes to 
see every one have conjaynal company.” 

Come away home, and stop your talk,” interrupted 
Madge. “ Miss Ruth won’t break hearts till she’s a 

woman grown, — a bit of a girl ” 

“Girl, indeed!” Priscilla said, in no wise propi- 
tiated ; “ seventeen is not a child’s age.” 

And seventeen she was in years. 

The artist of the Madonna might have gone no fur- 
ther for the embodiment of his ideal beauty, the con- 
ception of which had been the object of passionate 
contemplation. The brown eyes were there, the light- 
brown hair, the fair, soft hands whose outline furnished 
the merest suggestion of strength, of capacity in some 
direction, perhaps not yet defined ; th^t is, if hands 
are admitted to have a physiognomy of their own, — 
and who shall doubt it? 


TEN YEARS GONE BY. 


3 


CHAPTER II. 

TEN YEARS GONE BY. 

Women know 

The way to rear up children. 

Mrs. Browning. 

Ten years had passed since Ruth De Harte looked 
for the last time upon her mother’s face, and yet there 
were hours when that early sorrow came back with 
all the distinctness of reality: the dark, silent room, 
the hush of accustomed sounds, the cold form — un- 
heeding, unanswering the ‘‘good-night, mudder,” of 
the tiny barefoot baby, who leaned on tip-toe over 
that cold, narrow bed, where mother slept the last 
night at home. Ah ! baby had gone too where there 
were no good-nights spoken. Father followed soon, 
and since that time- Ruth had known no love save 
Aunt Rachel’s. How much of the divine spirit of love 
and gentleness Shone in this woman’s life we shall see 
as the events which developed the character of Ruth 
De Harte slowly shape themselves. It is thought that 
a woman of “strong opinions” generally photographs 
them upon the younger minds with which she comes in 
contact, because of the impressibility of the mental 
type in youth ; here was an exception to an almost 
universally recognized rule. This woman teacher, with 
an artistic sense of the beautiful and true, and with an 
2 * 


14 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


entire realization of her power, yet so disposed the 
lights and shadows that the young mind gave back no 
reflected images, save those of harmonious blending. 
In her own life, the darkness brightened into light, 
and the light melted into darkness with so tender and 
beautiful a grace, that young eyes looked bewilderingly 
through the camera-obscura of wonderment, seeking to 
know what master-hand had blended the colors of that 
nature into a harmonious and beautiful whole, and by 
what powerful though secret agency its brightness re- 
mained undimmed through all the changes of her life, 
— for it had not been uneventful, though she still bore 
her girlhood’s name, Rachel Grey. 


CHAPTER III. 

AFTER DARKNESS, LIGHT. 

My love for nature is as old as I. 

Tennyson. 

’Twas the morning after the storm, and, by the law 
which governs contrasts, the sun’s clear light shone 
with an unusual radiance, crowning with a golden halo 
every leaf and shrub that had bowed its head in last 
night’s storm. The atmosphere was full of those subtle 
essences with which mysterious nature operates to stir 
within her children those ‘‘inarticulate sensibilities” 
which form their purest joy. The exhilarating freshness 


AFTER DARKNESS, LIGHT. 


IS 

of the early spring-time filled earth and air with a 
melody of sweet sounds; “crowds of bees were giddy 
with clover,” fragrance floated in air, birds sang and 
chirped, “ thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.” It 
may be that the human heart is susceptible to the 
workings of that powerful but secret agency in nature 
by which the life-germ bursts the bonds of narrowness, 
and opens leaf and flower to the exquisite delights of 
individual existence ; or perhaps, so strong is the cur- 
rent of sympathy between animate and inanimate na- 
ture, that what gives life to one, gives joy to the other. 
We are but one link in that great chain whose beginning 
and whose end alike are in the hands of the Mighty 
Artificer. The force that moves one link may send a 
vibrating thrill through all the rest, by the workings of 
subtle laws of whose existence we can only judge by 
certain n.ever-failing results. 

Near the confines of the southern city of , and 

just bordering upon a pretty rural suburb, stood a row 
of gently-rising hills, girdled by woods ; half-way up 
the sunny slope of one, a tiny cottage dotted the green- 
ness, its front looking towards the sea. The top of 
the hill commanded a view of the surrounding country, 
dotted with the homes which contributed so largely 
to the picturesqueness of the landscape. A long, easy 
slant of roof gave part of its generous space to two small 
dormers ; between these, and projecting from the roof, 
a vine-trellised porch extended above the entrance; 
doors and windows were open to let in the early spring- 
time freshness. A peach-tree in luxuriant blossom scat- 
tered its pink leaves upon the ground, near one window 
at the right ; a honeysuckle clambered up the side and 


i6 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


around the corner at the left end of the house ; a sturdy- 
oak cast heavy shadows upon the soft green, just in front. 
Two steps led to the door ; upon one of these stood a girl- 
ish figure, holding up a battered vine which last night’s 
storm had torn and beaten down. The beauty of her 
face was clearly defined, as, looking up toward her in- 
jured pet, the sunlight lent a brighter tinge to the golden 
shade upon her brown hair ; a shadow settled upon the 
wavy streak, and another chased the light from her face, 
as, stepping out of the sunshine into shade, she surveyed 
critically the result of her labor. 

‘‘That won’t do yet !” with an intimation just con- 
veying the slightest suggestion of vexation. “That 
poor branch looks as if it were breaking its neck in the 
effort to be obedient. I hate compulsory obedience ; 
can’t you do my bidding willingly, you naughty vine? 
Such a way I never saw ! You will have me be a little 
tyrant in spite of myself!” Again the golden streaks 
threaded the brown hair. 

“ Gome down from your lofty height, and let me 
show you the way to go; right here, over- the door.” 
Then the soliloquizing tone changed to a low hum, 
keeping time to the melody of happy thoughts ; it was 
the hum of self-satisfaction. “That looks better, de- 
cidedly better ; just one more change, and then I am 
done 1 Your way, old impatience, lies in the direction 
of the roof, and you other poor, little, slender shoot 
must clamber towards the corner, to meet the morning 
sunlight ; you need light and air ; there, that will do ! 
No — not quite, either. Not done yet. That cruel 
storm last night was pitiless in its fury — had — no — 
mercy — had no mercy 1” With an emphatic pressure 


AFTER DARKNESS, LIGHT. 


17 


of the soft hand against the flexile twig. ‘‘Now, Fll 
take another look.” Again the low, musical hum, as 
she walked rapidly some distance down the hill-side, 
and, with one hand shading her eyes from the sun- 
light, stood looking at her work. “Just right ! What 
will Aunt Rachel say when she finds the vines re- 
placed? She went this morning to see Mrs. Walton, 
and has not yet returned. I wonder when she’ll 
come,” looking down towards the road that wound 
around the hill-side. “There is some one whom I do 
not know; he is coming this way, too. I will go in.” 
She walked up the hill and toward the house, stopping 
to adjust a drooping tendril. She was conscious all 
the while of an unfamiliar step that seemed to echo 
hers; even now* the stranger stood so near that sh^ 
could almost, feel his presence before he spoke. 

“ May I assist you ?” 

“ Thank you. No !” She had turned round to meet 
the speaker ; surprise betrayed itself in his expression. 

“It is like a resurrection,” he said, in a half-audible 
tone, when the first sudden shock had given place to 
the returning powers of an acute consciousness. “So 
like ! so like !” 

“What does he want?” thought Ruth, with an un- 
easy feeling making her uncomfortable. “ He has had 
some great sorrow, too heavy for him to bear.” With 
the speed of an electric flash, the thought came and went. 

“I ask pardon,” he said, in an altered tone; “my 
abrupt manner disturbed you ; but the truth is, your face 
is so like one of the old time, that it brings back a 
painful memory. Your eyes — your hair — your face 
— are just the same ! Will you tell me your name?” 


1 8 LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 

Ruth De Harte.” 

‘‘Ruth! And hers was But I forget. You 

will not let me help with your work?” 

“Oh, no, thank you.” 

“I have had some practice, and can lay claim to 
skill.” 

“ But these vines mind only me ; I am their mistress, 
and I do not choose to divide my authority.” 

“ I shall not ask as much. You live here ?” 

“Of course ! I have always lived here.” 

“With ” 

“With Aunt Rachel, since my childhood.” 

“ And no one else ?” 

“Grandmother, too. But she does not seem a part 
of my life, because she lives in a world of her own. 
Reason left its throne many years ago, while I was yet 
a child. I have only known the wreck. It must be 
hard for Aunt Rachel to bear.” 

“ Does she bear it well?” 

“Like the angel that she is. Do you know her?” 

“ No, I do not know her.” 

“ I thought you were a friend perhaps, whp had come 
to see her.” 

“ No, I am not a friend, only a stranger whom busi- 
ness has brought to this part of the country. I am de- 
tained here this morning, and so am seeking to enter- 
tain myself with the picturesque spots I find here and 
there. This one has a beauty all its own. Do you 
love the sea?” 

“ Love it ? As a child loves only the first things it 
learns to know. I have grown up in sight of the sea. 
I have seen its face every day of my life. I shall never 


AFTER DARKNESS, 


LIGHT 


19 

cease to love it. I think that in its presence I must 
always seem a child.” 

‘‘And so you are — in years.” 

“I am past seventeen.” 

“ That is not a woman’s age.” 

“ Nor yet a child’s.” 

“It is the border-land ; would you might never leave 
it!” 

“Why?” 

“It is a harsh world, ill suited for such as you.” 

“I long to enter it, though.” 

“ Heaven grant you may never long to leave it 1” 

“ I never shall.” 

“Do not be too confident; exemption from its sor- 
rows has never been the fate of mortal.” 

“ I accept its sorrows. I shall be strong enough to 
bear them.” 

“ Life has given you its promise to pay?” 

Ruth looked thoughtful; the question opened the 
way to a new field of mental vision. 

“ May it redeem the promise !” he continued ; “and, 
should we ever meet again in this life, may you be able 
to tell me that you hsLvt—full value received! Good- 
morning.” 

“How strange!” she said to herself, watching him 
walk down the hill. 

“ How the old time came back at sight of that sweet 
young face ! May she be preserved from sorrow ! She is 
too fair to suffer, and yet — ‘ the butterfly which seems 
the child of the summer and the sun, what wind will not 
chill its mirth, — what touch will not brush away its 
hues!’ ” 


20 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY, 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE LIGHT OF LOVE. 

Self is drowned in the blessedness of others. 

Faber. 

I HAVE had a visitor, Aunt Rachel.” 

A pleasant one?” 

“Very pleasant, but not very young.” 

“ Who was it, Ruth?” 

“ I don’t know, except that he was a gentleman.” 

“ A gentleman ?” 

“Yes, unmistakably; I enjoyed hearing him talk; 
he is so unlike old Mr. Grimsby, who is always venti- 
lating musty opinions for somebody else’s benefit. I 
am tired of seeing him.” 

“What is the name of your visitor, Ruth?” 

“I do not know. Aunt Rachel. He is a stranger, 
he told me, whom business brought here. I am like 
some one whom he knew in youth, and must have 
loved. My face brought back a painful memory, he 
said, and the look upon his face confirmed his words. 
I am sorry for him.” 

“ How did yo^ entertain this stranger?” 

“By telling hfim of you, and grandmother, and my- 
self.” 

“You had never seen him?” 

“ Never in my life.” 


THE LIGHT OF LOVE. 


21 


‘‘Ruth, you could not be discourteous ; it is not in 
your nature, because discourtesy springs from real un- 
kindness of heart ; therefore, I need not say never treat 
a stranger with discourtesy, but justice to self prescribes 
a limit that does not reach familiarity. A certain 
amount of discrimination is needed here, as in all things 
else. Strangers have no claim upon our confidence. 
You are not a child, Ruth. You have a right to the 
respectful consideration that is due every woman.” 

“ I am sorry that I am a woman.” 

“I am sorry, too, my child.” 

“ I was glad a little while ago, but somehow — now 
the thought seems to crush me. I am afraid I do not 
know my own mind. Just now, the thought of ever 
leaving you seems more than I can bear.” 

“ What has made you think of this, my child?” 

“ All women marry. Aunt Rachel.” 

“All women, Ruth?” 

“Forgive me, will you? I did not think ” 

“There is nothing to forgive, my child. It is 
natural that such thoughts should come. Sit down 
here beside me, and I will say something on a subject 
never talked of before.” By intuition, Ruth felt that 
she had touched a chord whose tones vibrated far back 
into the life of the one so dear to her, — a minor chord, 
whose melancholy music awoke sad memories. 

“Ruth,” she said, in her gentlest tone, “marriage 
has never yet been the subject of one talk between us, 
but the time has come when my love for you adds that 
topic to our daily lessons. This much I will say at 
once: do not look forward to marriage as the fruition of 
your hopes ; do not even entertain the belief that it is 
3 


22 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


necessary for your happiness ; then, if the time should ’ 
ever come — and I doubt not it will — when your heart ^ 
shall speak in its own behalf and that of another who ■ 
will love you as well as I, — hear its voice, and be glad ; 
but, my child, until that time, devote your best energies ' 
to the cultivation of those God-given faculties whose , 
exercise brings comfort and oftentimes happiness. It 
is said that a woman should always be independent, in 
order to be able to give her hand with grace and dig- 
nity; this is true. A woman who enjoys the conscious- 
ness of well-directed faculties can afford to bide her 
own time, in the giving of heart and hand. When she 
does bless a husband with her love, it is because he is 
the one her heart needs to fill up the measure of its 
happiness. If that other should never come into her 
•life, she will walk her quiet way alone, conscious of an ■ 
element of pleasure within herself, and happy in its 
possession.” 

“ I will not think of it again. Aunt Rachel. I will 
only try to be like you.” 

“ Be yourself, my dear, and be true to yourself in all 
the conditions of life. Cultivate every day you live 
that strong spirit of self-reliance which is a woman’s 
need in all circumstances, and her trusty friend when 
the strong arm she leaned upon is gone. Every woman 
should* be so fitted for life as to possess the means of 
independence within herself. The powers of observa- 
tion, of reason, of perception, rightfully cultivated, form 
the ground-work of that self-reliant spirit, without which 
there can be no true education.” 

Uncommon, yet most wise philosophy — that of 
Rachel Grey. 


A DESERTED THRONE. 


23 


1 


CHAPTER V. 

A DESERTED THRONE. 

His lips do move with inward mutterings, 

And his fix’d eye is riveted fearfully 
On something that no other sight can see. 

Maturin’s Bertram. 

‘‘You are better this morning, mother?” 

“Better? Yes. I shall be well one day, child. 
Well and happy ! In my Father’s house, where there 
are many mansions, we shall all be happy ! Rachel 
and Ruth, the little one, her dead mother, my Miriam, 
and David, my only boy. And the Lord shall call — 
Rachel, here ! Miriam, here ! David, here ! We are 
all here, dear Lord, all here ! The time is nigh, even 
now, and I have a glimpse of my Father’s house. Do 
you see it, Rachel ? Look ! ’ ’ 

The thin, white hand was raised nervously from her 
lap, an unsteady finger pointed in the direction to 
which the eyes were turned with a vacant, far-off look. 

“ We shall all be called,” she went on, “ from the 
great white register lying there. Rachel, here ! Miriam, 
here ! David, here ! Now, I hear his voice calling 
me : Mary, here ! Dear Lord, I am here.” 

The thin figure leaned forward with an eager, listen- 
ing look, a quiet smile flitted about the pale, white 
face in which there was but one expression left; it told 
that reason’s throne was vacant. 


24 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


‘‘We are all here, and all named for thy faithful | 
servants; because I kept Him and his children in re- "* 
membrance, because I named my little ones for those | 
He loved, because I did all this for his dear sake, 

I hear his voice saying unto me, ‘ Well done, thou ; 
good and faithful servant.’ ” 

“ It is the wind you hear, mother dear; I am here 
with you — only 1. Ruth is inside the house. I have 
brought you out to sit with me under the trees, because 
the morning air is sweet, and fresh, and pure, and the ' 
sky blue, and clear. I thought you would enjoy the . 
freshness and fragrance. And so you do, mother •; 
dear.” '■ 

“Oh, yes; but the Lord calls me, child. I must \ 

go-” I 

“ It is not his voice you hear, mother darling. You I 
are with her who loves you well ; would you leave me, > 
mother?” : 

“I shall never leave my only child alone, but when ^ 
the Lord calls us, we must go together.” 

“ There is much yet for us to do; shall we not do 
it, mother? Shall we not be brave and strong?” 

“ When He shall say, ‘ Come and enter into the 
kingdom prepared for you,’ then shall I be strong!” 

The same weak look and vacant smile ; while the 
poor, uneasy fingers wandered nervously over the folds 
of her deep mourning dress. 

There was a wonderful likeness between mother and 
daughter; that physical likeness which shows itself 
most in death, when there are none of the fleeting 
light and shades that make expression. Lying side by 
side, with the spark of life gone out, one would have 


A DESERTED THRONE. 


25 


said, ‘‘mother and child never were more like.” The 
same clearly-cut profile, the same breadth of brow and 
soft, dark eyes, the same lines about the mouth, that in 
one face denoted strength of purpose, and in the 
other seemed to straggle away and lose themselves in 
vacancy. 

“ Let us go in, mother ; the wind has changed ; it 
grows too chill.” 

“ Martha, Martha, thou art careful about many things. 
Shall I not hearken to the voice of Him who hath done 
all things well ? He hath made both the deaf to hear, 
and the dumb to speak ; and He will do well again, 
in the day when He shall say to my dead son, ‘Young 
man, I say to thee, arise ; and he that was dead shall 
sit up and begin to speak;’ and He shall give him to 
his mother. Ah! that will be a happy time, my 
child.” 

“ Give me your hand, mother. There now, that will 
do.” 

As tenderly as if she had been a tottering child, 
Rachel held her hand, and directed the faltering steps 
into the house, to a seat beside the window. 

“Rest there, mother; you must be tired.” 

“ There shall be rest for the weary when my Father’s 
voice shall call Mary ! Here, R-a-c-h-e-1, h-e-r-e I” . 

The last faint murmur died away; the weary head 
sank back in rest fu In ess ; sweet sleep closed “the tired 
eyelids upon tired eyes.” 

“Poor mother!” Rachel said, in a whispered tone, 
watching the peaceful breathing. “ There will be rest 
for thee in heaven, — only there !” 


3 ^ 


26 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER VI. 

AFTERNOON DREAMS. 

And dream’ d again 

The visions which arise without a sleep. 

Byron. 

“You pretty, rosy-streaked, dimpled sea, I shall 
never learn to talk to you in any other but the old- 
time, childish way, as when you were my pet com- 
panion, in the days when I loved — 

• To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 

And tender curving lines of creamy spray !’ 

I shall never be a child again,” she said, in a half- 
dreamy way, taking in her hand a small ivory-framed 
mirror that hung by a rose-colored ribbon near the 
window, where in the morning’s light her brown hair 
was brushed and braided. “ Who can it be that I am 
like? Let me see !” 

Standing in the best light the little room afforded, 
she looked earnestly into the mirror, as if determined 
that the case in question should lack nothing essential 
to the rendering of a judgment. The result was not 
perfectly self-satisfying ; for, as she turned to replace 
the glass, a little sigh accompanied the sounds, “ It 
does not tell me!” Then, as if seeking to look over 
and beyond the sea, musings shaped themselves into 


AFTERNOON DREAMS. 


27 

the question, ‘‘I wonder if I shall ever see the 
world ?” 

’Twas a pretty picture : the little room, with one 
window commanding a view of the sea, dimpling and 
brightening in the distance; the blue, far-off hills, 
seen from the south-end window ; the little adornments 
within, that help to make up prettiness in a young girl’s 
room ; all the tiny accessories that please the eye and 
fancy, not so much because of their own effectiveness, 
as that they convey a suggestion of an underlying cur- 
rent of exquisite beauty and grace. Small bits of 
landscape were effectively disposed here and there 
against the wall, and a copy of the Sistine Madonna 
hung in the best light the room afforded. 

One landscape was a piece of dark-blue sky, whose 
lighter edges seemed to rest upon the misty mountain- 
tops beyond ; in the distance, at the foot of a grim 
mountain, a quiet village nestled, away from the stir 
of the busy city whose towers and cupolas glared in the 
sunlight. Two yellow boats lazily sunned themselves in 
the harbor, and a flock of birds, with an easy, gliding 
grace, seemed to float through the soft summer air, 
mingling their airiness with the golden haze of the 
atmosphere. In another bit of Italian landscape, a 
bold mountain in the foreground, with its rough places 
and ragged edges all clearly defined in the noonday 
sun, overlooked the sea at one side ; the other gave 
its rugged shelter to a sleepy-looking town, accessible 
by a broad, winding, rocky road, where peasant men 
and women, in bright-colored garbs, rested beside their 
burdens. 

The Madonna’s face had been the study of her 


28 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


girlhood. How many rose-colored pictures of a young 
imagination borrowed their darker shades from the 
foreshadowing look of sorrow on that face ! 


CHAPTER VII. 


UNREST. 


It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
Like some wild melody. 


Rogers. 


The stranger, whose talk with Ruth had lent a new 
element to her life, walked toward the railroad depot 
on the afternoon of a quiet day. The sun was behind 
a cloud dense enough to conceal his face, and yet bor- 
rowing lustre from his glory. From one long rent a 
golden line fell downward to light up the purple 
shadows that rested on the far-off hills. Near by, the 
sky wore a paler, colder look ; long plains of misty 
whiteness, streaked with threads of blue, and pointed 
shapes, in darker colors, lay against the sky. Slender 
threads of silver, delicate flushes of the palest pink, a 
light breaking amid the blue, a shadow darkening the 
brightness, and, farther off, a pale gray sky settling 
in pensive beauty above the landscape. 

Peace shone in the face of the little stream that 
sparkled and danced on its way among the hills; peace 
dwelt in the repose of uninhabited spots ; in the cool 


UNREST. 


29 

depths of shaded places ; in the sunshine — in earth — 
in air. 

Rattle, rattle ! shriek, shriek ! and the snorting giant 
that never tired puffing and blowing, clattering and 
rushing, went darting down the hill-side, flashed into 
and out of the valley, making a flying line of blackness 
against the green earth ; around the river-side, and it 
was gone with a roar into and across the fields of green ; 
up other hill-sides, and into the peaceful valleys that 
lay between. How many of the scenes awakened 
memories of another time ! 

Forward, forward, rushed the thundering iron mon- 
ster ! backward, backward, into the far regions of the 
past sped thought ! Another hour and still another, — 
roaring and shrieking, flashing in and out of valleys, 
up and down hill-sides, in, and by, and past rural dis- 
tricts; in, and by, and past sleepy-looking towns; on — 
on — for hours ! near, and through, and past busy places 
where the hum and noise were lost in the shrieking of 
the monster that flew on, towards and ever nearer home. 
The quiet evening seemed to have no voice : it was 
lost amid a ceaseless rattle and clatter ; yet its pensive 
face spoke of peace, when the twilight' shadows began 
to deepen into night. Pale, pearly streaks lightened 
the blue, and gold, and rosy hues that overspread the 
western sky ; longer and deeper grew the shadows ; 
grayer, and still more gray the dress that evening-time 
put on. The flush faded : ’twas but a hectic glow, — 
beautiful and full of promise, yet deceptive, — for the 
day was done. 

The sweet, reposeful calm of night’s first hour hushed 
all busy tones into quiet, and stilled the feverish pulse 
of day. 


30 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


Night and rest, broken by the tearing, and whirling, 
and hurrying of the homeward-bound giant ! Sleep 
and peace, disturbed by the unquiet dreams of the 
homeward-bound traveler ! 


CHAPTER VIII. 
nature’s gloom. 

Where waving- mosses shroud the pine, 

And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine 
Is spotted like the snake. 

Longfellow. 

Mental and moral effects do not admit of measure- 
ment like tangible substances, else it would not be 
difficult to decide which effect was the greater, — that 
of the stranger’s coming and going upon Ruth’s mind, 
or Ruth’s face upon the stranger’s memory : one dealt 
with the future ; the other, with the past. Here is 
the difference between youth and age : one, not having 
reached the half-way life-meridian, looks toward the 
far, un traveled way; the other, having crossed the 
line which marks half the journey, has more in the 
past than in the future, and finds his chief pleasure in 
looking backward, particularly if the past held a hope 
that the future does not promise. No scene in the 
present could dispel the memories awakened by the face 
of the girl he had seen. 


f 


NATURE^S GLOOM, 31 

His route lay through one of the swamps found in 
that part of the country. What a picture it presented 
of untrained nature running wild, amid the luxuriance 
of a rank vegetation ! Decaying leaves spotted the 
surface of the black, sluggish water, from which sprung 
tall, gaunt, ungraceful growths, as if hungering for 
light and air, and freedom from the murky bottom, 
where spotted snakes and sleepy frogs crawled in the 
filth and slime. A hissing reptile darted its venomous 
tongue, and wound its green and yellow form into un- 
dulating coils, near a black log in the last stage of 
decay, — damp and dark, save where the fetid water 
had gathered a greenish scum. Dense thickets of heavy 
foliage grew in rank profusion, wild and impenetrable, 
and formed a heavy undergrowth to the great trees, 
which, covered with mantles of gray moss, seemed to 
mourn the desolation of the scene. One, whose life 
was gone, cast down from its withered arms long, 
straggling threads of gray, which drifted about iij the 
sunlight, and were blown into ragged shapes by the 
wind. How like a shriveled vyitch taking savage joy 
in the weird effect of the dismal scene ! 


32 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER IX. 

RECOGNITION. 

But in that instant o’er his soul 
Winters of memory seemed to roll. 

Byron. 

Western New York can boast of no prettier scene 
among its picturesque beauties, than that looked upon 
by a tired traveler, towards the close of a day whose 
heat heralded an early summer. Rich pastures lay 
upon the hill-side ; the valleys were diversified by 
innumerable shades of green, light and dark, bluish 
tints and yellow. Wild -flowers grew in untrarned 
beauty. A low stone wall, near by, was mellowed and 
softened by the tender sunset lights that rested lovingly 
upon its old, gray face; a clinging vine, too, with 
caressing fondness, sought to hide its seams and furrows. 
Golden blossoms made little patches of brightness here 
and there ; and in the low-lying valleys, in shadowed 
spots, cool and damp, slender ferns leaned whisperingly 
toward a brook that rippled on its course with a tuneful 
sound. On one side of the water, a long line of gray 
fence sunk down towards the bank, and, rising again 
suddenly, ran jaggedly up the hill-side, till its old gray 
form was lost in a clump of trees beyond. A train of 
cars darted in and out along the edge of the landscape, 
looking in the distance like a huge, black serpent. 


RECOGNITION. 


33 


“ The tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me.” 

He had stopped to look upon the scene ; its repose- 
ful beauty filled him with a sense of rest. 

“ It was an imprudent impulse that directed my 
wandering footsteps there ; who can tell if a better one 
brings me here ? I have almost reached the place. I 
will go on.” 

Twilight shadows began to creep along the outer 
edges of the landscape. 

* ‘ How far distant is Gloaming Grange ?’ ’ He spoke 
to a sunburnt boy who walked leisurely along the broad 
road leading to the town near by. 

*‘Not far, sir. When you get to the turn that you 
see there in the road, take the narrow path to the right, 
till ye comes to a grand big house standing back so 
far that you can only see the chimneys from the road- 
side. You will know it, sir: there is nothing like it 
in all these parts.* A fine place, sir, and a grand lady ! 
Such pride never was known, they sez.” 

‘‘ Who says ?” 

‘‘Oh, everybody, sir.” 

“ Everybody is a gossip. Find better company next 
time, my lad, and you’ll not have everybody' s slanders 
to repeat. Thank you for your information.” 

“I meant no harm, sir. I only told you what I 
heard, and ” 

The stranger had passed on. 

Gray shadows crept along the broad walk that wound 
its way from the front gate to the entrance of the noble 
house crowning the highest point of Gloaming Grange. 
A grove luxuriantly wooded lay between it and the 
4 


34 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


road. In the dim, uncertain light a tall cupola seemed 
but a light, aerial shadow, lifting itself from earth to 
heaven. Pale spectral blooms lent their sweetness to 
the evening air. Old giant trees gave shelter to the 
deep shadows that skulked away from the lingering 
light. The fountain was faintly discernible through 
an opening in the trees ; the low murmur of its fall- 
ing water could just be heard breaking the evening 
stillness. 

Following the winding walk, and going from deep 
shadows into deeper, and from these into a sudden 
darkness, created by a thick growth of overarching 
trees, a sudden turn brought him face to face with the 
house itself, brooding in silent and solemn grandeur 
over all. 

Houses may be said to have a physiognomy of their 
own. ‘‘ On some not a line is written, save a date.” 

This one had an air of lofty pride peculiar to itself. 
The architecture resembled that of, a by-gone time, 
when towers and turrets told a story of departed glory, 
and castle-halls gave back the echo. 

A broad, stone terrace led up to the arched entrance, 
where a household messenger — with a manner in keep- 
ing with the dignity of the mansion — answered the 
summons of the visitor, and announced his coming to 
the Lady of Gloaming Grange. 

Soon she entered ; neither spoke for a moment, each 
waiting for the other; he expected recognition, and 
she divined his thought. 

“ Pardon me : I do not know your name,” she said. 

You do not know me, Leonore !” 

Great God ! is it you, Robert ?” 


DE FRO FUND IS. 


35 


‘‘It is even I, Leonore !” 

“ After all these years?” 

“ After all these years, I am come again !” 


CHAPTER X. 

DE PROFUNDIS. 


Through the shadowy past. 

Like a tomb-searcher, memory ran, 

Lifting each shroud that time had cast 
O’er buried hopes. 

Moore. 

“ All day the low-hung clouds had poured their gar- 
nered fullness down;” Gloaming Grange wore its most 
dreary look. The tall grass outside hung heavy, soaked 
through and through with the rain; the leaves upon 
the trees drooped from heaviness; the roses, near the 
terraced front, bent their flushed faces towards the 
earth ; paler blooms, with tear-stained faces, bowed 
down their heads, resigned but sorrowing. Little pools 
of water lay in widening circles upon the walk. The 
sky gave no promise but that of rain ; a ceaseless, mo- 
notonous drip, drip, verified the promise. Mrs. Von 
Arsdel looked out upon the prospect with that unmis- 
takable expression which tells that the dreariness with- 
out harmonizes with the gloom arising from newly- 


36 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


awakened memories of sorrow. In delicacy of outline, 
and the grace of perfect symmetry, her face was classi- 
cally beautiful, but it was a beauty 

“ Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.” 

There was an apparent incongruity between the delicate 
smoothness of the face and the soft white hair crown- 
ing it, and yet an undefinable fitness. Last night had . 
left a trace. ‘‘ Flame itself does not so suddenly ravage 
— so suddenly alter — leave behind it so ineffable an 
air of desolation and ruin, as a great and sudden 
shock.” Whatever might be its nature, none should 
ever know, while the secret was hers to guard and 
■cherish. There was that in her face, as she stood look- 
ing out upon the dripping landscape, which said as 
plainly as words could have done, that a struggle was 
going on in which she had resolved to be the victor. 
Strangely constituted beings that we are, with a warp 
of good and a woof of evil in our moral texture, there 
is that in a certain kind of pride, which enlists our 
sympathies almost unconsciously, particularly when, in 
the contest with fate, pride is vanquished. 

A heart’s passionate wail moaned itself out into the 
darkness of the day. ‘‘The resurrection of my dead 
love, — but not for me, not for me !” 


HERE AND THERE. 


37 


CHAPTER XI. 

HERE AND THERE. 

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower; 

But how can I weep for Willy, he has gone but for an hour, — 

Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next? 

I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ? 

Tennyson. 

He has said, ‘ Suffer little children to come unto 
me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven ; ’ therefore, 
in that day, shall his voice call Ruth ! Ruth ! and she 
shall be weighed in the balance and not found want- 
ing.” 

‘^Is it of me you speak, grandmother?” 

“Of you, little one, — of you.” 

“Look at me, dear grandmother; see how tall I 
am.” 

“ I see Miriam, my child, — Miriam my eldest-born ; 
come and kiss me, dear.” 

“ Dear grandmother, it is little Ruth who puts her 
arms around your neck and leaves a kiss upon yoqr 
cheek ; there is Aunt Rachel in the garden tending her 
flowers. Your Miriam is my mother, but she is in 
heaven now.” 

“Let me think about it, child.” The thin hand 
was pressed against her head, as if to force back wand- 
ering thought, then fell listlessly at her side again : the 

4 * 


38 


LIFES PROMISE TO PAY. 


eyes wore their accustomed far-off look, straining the 
vision, as it were, to see beyond the reach of mortal 
ken. 

True, true! I see now; I see it all 1 One day his 
voice called Miriam, Miriam ! and my child, Miriam, 
my eldest-born, answered, ‘Here, Lord, here!’ And 
she went into the house where dwells David, my only 
son, my boy. I shall see them both in the day when 
His voice shall say, ‘Well done, thou good and faithful 
spjvant.’ That will be a happy day, my little one.” 

“Are we not happy now, grandmother? We have 
each other’s love.” 

“It is not like that, child ; there is no love like unto 
the Father’s. He said to the prodigal, ‘ Son, thou art 
ever with me, and all I have is thine.’ To his weak 
and timid children He will say, ‘It is I : be not afraid.’ 
Nay, more : ‘ because thou hast loved me,’ He will say, 

‘ enter into the joys of the kingdom of heaven.’ And 
there will be great joy among the angels ; and David 
will be there, and Miriam, and Rachel, and Rut^, and 
I shall be there, when the Lord will call Mary, Mary ! 
We shall all be there, all be there! I am weary of 
waiting, weary, weary!” 

“Your voice seems tired, grandmother; lay your 
head back against the chair and rest.” 

“I cannot rest; there is no time for rest. I must 
prepare to meet Him whom my soul loves. He gave 
me the little ones, and He called them back home again, 
but his own hand will restore them to me, as in the 
time when He said, ‘Young man, I say to thee arise.’ 
He will call, and they shall answer, and their mother’s 
eyes will again behold the faces of her loved ones. 


A MORAL COROLLARY. 


39 


Oh, what joy ! But I grow weary of waiting ; weary, 
weary of waiting to hear Thee call Mary ! I am ready 
to say. Here, Lord, here !” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A MORAL COROLLARY. 

Never think it enough to have solved the problem started by another 
mind till you have deduced from it a corollary of your own. 

Bulwer. 

A KNOWLEDGE of men and things far less profound 
than that of the woman who proposed it would have 
justified the query, ‘‘Is it due to excess of poetry or 
of stupidity, that we are never weary of describing 
what King James called a ‘ woman’s makdom and her 
fairnesse,’ never weary of listening to the twanging of old 
troubadour strings, and are comparatively uninterested 
in that other kind of ‘ makdom and fairnesse’ which 
must be wooed with industrious thought and patient 
renunciation of small desires?” 

Love and marriage are the attractive subjects of the 
chapters to which we hasten, with an interest whetted 
by the history of those trials, sorrows, and partings 
which, from an inference drawn from the old poet’s 
proverb, is an inseparable accompaniment of true 
love. Alas for the life that lacks these elements of 
general interest ! What can it offer that will fill the 
place of the master-passion ? Here is a life, that of 


40 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


Rachel Grey, reaching the zenith of its beauty at a 
time when most women are looking forward to the 
future of their sons and daughters. We are not apt to 
look beyond the bounds of probability with any ex- 
pectation of great or startling developments in the 
lives of those who have more than passed the half-way 
line. Wonderment assumes various phases from youth 
to age, none more common or oft-repeated than that 
which in early womanhood shapes itself into the query, 
‘‘Whom will she marry?” None more common or 
oft-repeated, unless it be the one which follows ten 
years later, “I wonder why she did not marry?” 
Equal sources of bewilderment^ to which we might add 
a third, and one of greater possible difficulties in the 
solution, “I wonder why she married him .?” But, as 
“ any side of a triangle is less than the sum of the other 
two,” so every ill-accomplished or unaccomplished act 
is less difficult of reconcilement with surrounding cir- 
cumstance than the perfect adjustment of a known 
effect to an unknown cause. To find the sum of these 
two, and to prove them greater than the less, that of 
visible determining influences and their life-effects, re- 
quires a demonstration involving unknown quantities. 

The component parts of our mental organization are 
as subtle, as intangible, as light and air ; they admit of 
no demonstration; the lines traced for the solution 'of 
one problem in individual character -will not answer 
for another. Emotion, feeling, impulse, live in a world 
of their own ; we judge best of their existence by the 
shock that follows after and reaches beyond the scene 
of their convulsive throbbings. 

Corollary. Every life-effect has a determining cause. 


LIFE'S FIRST I. O. U, 


41 


CHAPTER XIII. 
life’s first I. o. u. 

What a complex thing is education ! How many circumstances 
that have no connection with books and tutors contribute to the 
rearing of the human mind ! 

Bulwer. 

Ruth, I have news for you.” 

“ For mcj Aunt Rachel ? What can it be?” 

‘‘You are invited to visit and spend several months 
with a friend of mine.” 

“Who, Aunt Rachel? Where does she live? May 
I go?” 

“ She is Mrs. Von Arsdel. She lives in the western 
part of New York State. The question I meant to ask 
you is not necessary.” 

“ What was it. Aunt Rachel ?” 

“ If you should be glad to go ?” 

“ Glad ! I should be so happy. Aunt Rachel !” 

“ Then you shall go, my dear.” 

“You are so good, my own Aunt Rachel. But, 
am I selfish, to want to leave you here alone with 
grandmother ? Forgive me, not to have remembered 
sooner that it will be the first time since my mother 
died. You are in her place, — my own good mother ; 
I forgot ; I am mean and selfish. Forgive me, will 
you, 7na bonne mere, not to have remembered you in 
my own gladness?” 


42 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PA Y, 


If you were selfish, Ruth, I could not love you 
with the entire devotion of my life, as I do now. I 
could never put you entirely out of my heart, because 
you are my sister’s child, and that fact gives you a 
life-claim upon my love and service ; but, Ruth, my 
child, though you are full of faults, and I grieve much 
for those which may bring you sorrow, yet, I am happy 
that there is no selfish taint upon your character. 
Selfishness is a kind of moral scrofula, poisoning 
the nature which, but for its presence, might have 
breathed an atmosphere free from moral taint, and 
have developed into the strong healthfulness of a noble 
individuality. It is most true, my child, that ‘ no in- 
dulgence of passion destroys the spiritual nature so 
much as respectable selfishness.’ No, my dear, you 
are not selfish.” 

“But I am — what. Aunt Rachel?” 

“Proud, first.” 

“And willful, second?” 

“Yes; but the second is an outgrowth of the first. 
Uproot pride, and there will be no branch left.” 

“ Why is pride to be so much regretted. Aunt 
Rachel? Is a mother’s pride in her children sin- 
ful?” 

“ Dickens says that ‘ pride is one of the seven deadly 
sins;’ but it cannot be the pride of a mother in her 
children, for that is a compound of faith and hope,” 
Aunt Rachel said in reply. “ The pride that mars 
your character, Ruth, I cannot show you, because self- 
love helps to screen it from your view. You will see 
it when you shall have learned the precept, ‘ Know 
thyself.’ This is difficult ; ‘ That truth was told us by 


LIFE'S FIRST I. O. U. 


43 

the old heathen oracle ; but what old heathen oracle 
has told us how to know ?’ ” 

It was in this way that Ruth had learned her lessons. 
No forcing apparatus was applied to hasten mental 
growth. The law of love prescribed methods for 
instruction, for guidance, for that culture which all the 
false teaching in the world can never give. Through 
Aunt Rachel’s guardianship, Ruth was at least saved 
from the evils of miseducation, and that of itself was 
cause for congratulation, in days when true educa- 
tion was rare. She was not the pattern-card of a 
finishing school,” thanks to the wise judgment of a 
woman who discarded all educating-machines, and in 
their stead sought, by the “ mysterious contact of 
spirit,” — of thought with thought, — to educe from the 
chaos of untrained nature faculties whose growth was 
not hindered by what Carlyle calls “ etymological 
compost.” Ruth had no experiences like those of 
Teufelsdrock, surnamed Der Wetnende, because he 
wept often through want of practical guidance, want 
of sympathy, want of hope. ‘‘My teachers,” says 
he, “were hide-bound pedants, without knowledge of 
man’s nature, or of boys; or of aught save their lexi- 
cons and quarterly account-books. Innumerable dead 
vocables (no dead language, for they themselves knew 
no language) they crammed into us, and called it fos- 
tering the growth' of mind. How can an inanimate, 
mechanical Gerund-grinder, the like of whom will in 
a subsequent century be manufactured at Niirnberg out 
of wood and leather, foster the growth of anything, 
much more of mind, which grows, not like a vegetable 
(by having its roots littered with etymological compost). 


44 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PA Y, 


but like a spirit, by mysterious contact of spirit, — 
thought kindling itself at the fire of living thought? 
How shall he give kindling in whose inward man 
there is no live coal, but all is burnt out to a dead gram- 
matical cinder ? The Hintershlag professor knew syn- 
tax enough, and of the human soul thus much ; that it 
had a faculty called memory, and could be acted on 
through the muscular integument by means of birch 
rods. Alas ! so it is everywhere ! So will it ever be 
till the hodman is discharged, or reduced to hod-bear- 
ing, and an architect is hired, and on all hands fitly 
encouraged, — till communities and individuals dis- 
cover, not without surprise, that fashioning the souls 
of a generation by knowledge can rank on a level 
with blowing their bodies to pieces by gunpowder; 
that with generals and field-marshals for killing, there 
should be world-honored dignitaries, and, were it pos- 
sible, true God-ordained priests for teaching.” 

AVe are glad to know that from this poverty did the 
strong educe nobler wealth ; thus, ’ ’ says Carlyle,-** in the 
destitution of the wild desert does our young Ishmael 
acquire for himself the highest of all possessions, that of 
self-help.” 


DRIFTS, 


45 


CHAPTER XIV. 

DRIFTS. 

His thoughts 

Were combinations of disjointed things. 

Byron. 

Grandmother, I am going away.” 

*^All gone but two — Ruth and Rachel ! David, is 
there, and Miriam too. When I call Rachel, I hear 
her voice, and Ruth says, ‘ Here !’ But the others 
hear only when the Lord calls. They have gone to 
sleep in the valley of the shadow of death ! They 
do not hear my voice! Will you not hear me when 
I call, child?” 

*‘For a little while only, grandmother.” 

My others are gone to the heavenly Jerusalem, 
‘away from the evils to come and each one is walk- 
ing in his uprightness. The Lord said, ‘ in due season 
ye shall reap, if ye faint not j’ and they did reap. And 
He said again unto them, ‘ The Lord recompense thy 
work, and a full reward be given thee of the Lord God 
of Israel, under whose wings thou art come to trust.” 
So will He say to thee, my child, in the good time 
when his voice will call, ‘Ruth!’ and thine shall 
answer, ‘ Here !’ ” 

“ Do not speak of that time, grandmother. I am 
not called away forever. For a little while, only, shall 
.5 


46 , LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 

I be gone. You will be glad to have me back again, 
grandmother, will you not?” 

Ask the Lord to go with you, child. Be like ‘ Moses, 
who was rather for dying where he stood than to go one 
step without, his God.’ He will say to thee, ‘When 
thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee ; and 
through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.’ ” 


) 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE THORN OF THE JUNE ROSE. 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 

Morning rises into noon, 

May glides onward into June. 

Longfellow. ^ 

Oftentimes, in the beginning and midst of sum- 
mer, there comes a day suggestive of autumn, when 
nature seems bathing in a mellow, golden haze. The 
time appointed for Ruth’s departure came, bringing 
such a day as this. The dew had fallen heavily during 
the night, and at sunrise trees and flowers were “sil- 
vered with the damp.” Little patches of brightness 
lay here and there between the trees, and slender, 
golden streaks threaded the shady, wooded places. 
The light mist which only lent the veil of haziness to 
the nearer landscape seemed to deepen in the distance. 


THE THORH OF THE JUNE ROSE. 47 

making trees and houses to appear as shadows of them- 
selves. Days, not less than events, make up the history 
of our lives, and are, besides, the landmarks from which 
time is reckoned. Weeks and months and years are 
factors of time, and though, as a single composite num- 
ber, each may seem small, yet 

" There are fatal days indeed, 

In which the fibrous years have taken root 
So deeply, that they quiver to their tops 
Whene’er you stir the dust of such a day.” 

Ruth forgot her joy in the pain of parting. Self- 
repression was habitual to Rachel Grey, and that day, 
when, for Ruth’s dear sake, self-composure seemed more 
than ever necessary, there were no traces of tears upon 
her face. Grandmother had no part in the sorrow: 
her thoughts were of the dead, and of the time when 
she would answer Here ! to a welcome call. 

Mr. Sherwood, a friend of Rachel Grey’s, was to 
accompany Ruth ; he stood awaiting her, for the last 
minute of her stay had come ; yet she lingered still, 
to say another word, to press another parting kiss on 
Aunt Rachel’s cheek. 

My own darling, good-by !” 

Ruth, my child. Heaven protect and bring you 
back in its own good time !” 

She was gone, and the little home at Glenarden was 
desolate that night. 

A girlish face was pressed against the window, during 
the early part of that journey, as if to seek relief and 
sympathy from the trees that seemed rushing away from 
joy, like some one else whose eyes filled with tears, and 


48 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO . PA Y. 


whose lip quivered when a self-accusing voice whispered, 

If I only had not been glad to leave,” words dictated 
by that feeling of sorrow and keenest reproach which 
comes to us all, in the first hours of separation, when 
‘‘there comes thronging back upon the memory and 
knocking dolefully at the soul every unkind look, every 
ungracious word, every ungentle action.” 

The next day, variety of scene brought relief, and 
the incidents common to traveling, the hurry and 
bustle and stir, the people who ventilated “portable 
theories” for the benefit of the public, lent interest to 
the journey. It was Ruth’s first trip, and, to a girl of 
seventeen, full of ardor, enthusiasm, and an intense 
love of the beautiful, such a trip, through a portion 
of country rich in gorgeous beauty, was fraught with 
the interest which stirs an emotional nature to its very 
depths. At length there was a final shriek — a lull — a 
jerk — a stop; Ruth had reached the end. Mrs. Von 
Arsdel was there to meet her, and they were soon on 
the road to Gloaming Grange. 


BOOK II. 


AMONG THE REAPERS. 

" And she sat beside the reapers.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 
ruth’s letter. 

Thou know’st how fearless is my trust in thee. 

Miss Landon. 

My Own Aunt Rachel, — My heart goes home to 
you to-day, — to the little sunlighted Glenarden, where 
I have known such gladness in your love, and so little 
else, since the days of my childhood. So far away to- 
day — so far ! How I miss the sight of your dear face, 
the sound of your gentle voice ! Amid all the wondrous 
sights and sounds of that great city through which we 
came, if one shadow darkened my joy — and one did^ 
my darling — thoughts of you cast it there, and if it 
stays till even now, it is because thoughts of you stay 
too. 

You are waiting to. hear something of Mrs. Von 
Arsdel. What shall I say? I have never seen such a 
face. May I never see such another ! Yet, she is beau- 

5 * 49 


50 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PA Y. 


tiful, though owing nothing to warmth of color or ex- 
pression. Her hair is like rippling waves of silver; it 
gives a strange effect to the deadly whiteness of her 
face, and the intense brilliancy of large, dark eyes. I 
look at her face and wonder what is there, that gives me 
such an undefinable sense of pain. The mouth would 
be perfect but that the lines which should be delicate 
are too deeply marked for beauty, and lack harmonious 
blendings with expression. The lines are straight, — 
such as I have heard you say denote strength of will. 
I think I see you smile at this first lesson of your pupil 
in the art of physiognomy. I do not read faces, you 
know. Aunt Rachel, but something like an intuition 
suggested thoughts of sorrow at the first sight of Mrs. 
Von Arsdel’s face. She is most kind, but, ma mere, 
her kindness is so unlike yours, that I cannot help — but 
I must not make comparisons. The house itself is im- 
posing and elegant in all its appointments, yet I find 
myself contrasting its gloom with our pretty bit of sun- 
shine and flowers. The wooded grounds in front, and 
the long shaded avenue, are beautiful, and there my 
loneliness finds its chief comfort. One winding walk 
leading away from the house is cool and still as a cathe- 
dral aisle. In this spot Nature’s voice is 

‘ Like an ^olian harp that wakes 
No certain air, but overtakes 
Far thought with music that it makes.’ 

I have the brightest, prettiest room in all the house 
the library is pretty too ; that and my own room are all 
I care for, besides the woods and a little bit of beauty 
at the left of the house. All else is solitary and cheer- 


RUTH'S LETTER. 


51 


less ; the house might be brightened with flowers and 
sunshine, and an immense taking down of ugly people 
that crowd the walls with solemn dignity. The rooms 
are full of these old stately personages, and in the whole 
collection there is but one face that pleases me, — fair, 
sweet, and girlish, with a beauty intensified by the face 
next it, — that of an old man, with pale-blue eyes, mak- 
ing slender slits in a blank face. ^ Who is that?’ I 
said to Mrs. Von Arsdel, pointing to the former. 
^Mary Clare,’ she answered, ‘and the next one is 
her husband.’ ‘ Her husband !’ I said, astonished. 
‘Her husband,’ she repeated; ‘do you wonder?’ 
‘I wonder that she could marry I said. Her 

next words seemed in answer to some mute question- 
ing of her own : ‘ ’Twas the first impulse of an un- 
disciplined heart, — the first — impulse — of — an undis- 
ciplined heart !’ The thought came into my mind that 
perhaps these words had found an echo in her own 
heart, and that, like her of whom they were written, 
the self-same tones were heard, waking and sleeping, in 
darkness and in light. 

“ Mr. Von Arsdel and his son are not at home. I 
cannot rid myself of a thought that Mrs. Von Arsdel — 
perhaps it is but a foolish fancy of mine, — my brain is 
just full of fancies, you know. Aunt Rachel, — now 
here’s one flitting like a ghost through its empty cham- 
bers, — pity they were not better tenanted. Well, here 
it isy I have heard of grim skeletons lurking in the 
secret places of great houses, and it just seems to me 
that this house contains such a one. I seem to feel its 
very presence. Isn’t this a dark fancy for your little 
Ruth to entertain? I’ve just whispered it into your 


52 DIFE^S PROMISE TO PAY. 

ear, and now, dark spectre, avaunt ! Back to your hid- 
ing-place ; these lines shall bear to my darling only 
the brightest, happiest, gladdest thoughts of 
Her own 

* ^^Ruth.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

/ MIDNIGHT. 

My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 

But a continuance of enduring thought, 

Which then I can resist not. 

- Byron. 

The silence and solitude of the midnight hour bring 
no peace to a ‘‘heart hot and restless;” no rest to 
eyes aching for want of tears. Memory has been busy 
at her work through the long hours of the night, and 
memory is known to be a sleep-disturber ; her voice 
will not be hushed, her visions cannot be dispelled even 
by the imperious woman who walks the room with the 
restlessness which is the instinctive vent of strong, ex- 
cited feeling. But it is night now — deep, dark night, 
she knows, and, moreover, there are none near by to 
be disturbed by the sound of her footstep. So let her 
walk, and sob, and moan out her long-stifled griefs. 
None shall see and hear but One, and He never betrays 
the secrets of the heart that trusts Him. “ So like ! so 


MIDNIGHT. 


53 


like ! I must see her as she sleeps. What though it 
should bring back that dreadful night, to intensify this 
grief! \ must ! I will !” 

With a quick, nervous grasp, she seizes the lamp 
burning dimly on the table, opens the door, steals with 
a noiseless tread along the silent halls, whose dark 
recesses are lighted with a pale, momentary gleam ; the 
shadow passes, — flits from room to room, — glides like 
a ghostly presence through the darkness of chambers 
untenanted save by the mute representatives of family 
pride j even that which is left to tell of their mortality 
loses its grossness in the weird light that falls from the 
hand of this white, gliding presence. She pauses a mo- 
ment at Ruth’s door to assure herself that all is still, — 
puts a key in the lock, and enters. The girl is sleep- 
ing, — unconscious of the restless throbbing of the heart 
so near her. Mrs. Von Arsdel puts up her hand to shade 
Ruth’s face from the dim light. “How that wretched 
time comes back ! She is ‘ so young, so strong, so 
sure of God !’ ” Another look that brings back mem- 
ories, and the white presence glides back noiselessly 
as it came.. When morning dawns, it will bring no 
knowledge of this night’s scene, for that woman’s face 
tells no tales, and the eyes that seemed to look down 
from dark, carved settings have for years been closed 
in death. . # 


54 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

QUESTIONINGS. 

It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear, 

Yet it consumes the heart. 

Sheridan. 

Ruth, my child, you must weary of this solitude. 
Come, let us walk.” 

‘‘You are kind, Mrs. Von Arsdel.” 

“I am but pleasing myself, child, in seeking to 
please you, which, after all, is a selfish motive. ’ ’ 

“ You wrong yourself; such selfishness would be akin 
to kindness, and there is no such relationship, even the 
most remote. Aunt Rachel says that some of our faults 
are slightly connected with an offshooting branch from 
the tree of nature’s nobility; they must be those which 
‘lean to virtue’s side.’ Selfishness inclines farthest the 
other way.” 

“ Aunt Rachel is good authority ; her life has realized 
the promise of her girlhood; she was always good.” 

“Was she pretty, Mrs. Von Arsdel?” 

“ You are the living embodiment of her youth. 
Strange that a sister’s child should be so like ! You do 
not at all resemble your mother.” 

“It /estrange. And do you know, Mrs. Von Ars- 
del, I have a fancy that I am like her in more ways 
than one.” 


QUESTIONINGS. 


55 


‘‘ I know it. You resemble her in many ways.” 

I have sometimes thought that she sympathizes 
with my faults, because they are like those of her own 
girlhood.” 

‘^It may be so. Is — she — happy, — Ruth?” 

‘^Oh, yes; I can imagine no misfortune that could 
take from her the spirit of peace that pervades her 
whole life. Her happiness is in an humble acceptance 
of whatever comes from her Father’s hand.” 

“Without this love and confidence, would she still 
be happy, think you, Ruth?” 

“Without this love and confidence, could any one 
be happy, Mrs. Von Arsdel?” 

* ‘ It seems— not, — child ; — yet I do not know. About 
Aunt Rachel ” 

“I meant to say, that if her nature ever was a joyous 
one, it has been modified into a spirit of uniform 
gentleness and all-pervading serenity. There is a 
shadow somewhere, I have fancied at times, but I can- 
not place it. Shadow-hunting is not my specialty, 
Mrs. Von Arsdel ; do you notice how I lead you, in 
our walk, to the sunniest spots?” 

“ You will be a little stray bit of sunshine to Gloam- 
ing Grange. How much Fred will enjoy your being 
here ! I am looking for him every hour. But — you 
were telling me something of Aunt Rachel’s life ” 

“Yes, at times, I have thought she meant to tell me 
something of her early life. Recently, I have thought 
it more than ever before. One day, we talked to- 
gether in an unusual way; the conversation was sug- 
gested by the coming of a strange gentleman, who 
stopped a little while to talk with me one morning in 


S6 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


the early spring-time, while I stood outside the door 
tying up my vines. His manner was very strange.” 

“What — did — he — say, — Ruth ?’ ’ 

“ He spoke, in a disjointed way, of one whom I re- 
sembled ; one long since dead, he said.” 

^<Well ” 

“ ‘So like,’ he said, in an incoherent way. Are 

you ill, Mrs. Von Arsdel?” Ruth spoke in a fright- 
ened tone, noticing the pallor of the face beside her. 

“No; but the heat has made me faint. Run across 
the roadside, and tell the man working in the garden 
to bring me water.” 

Ruth did as she was bid, and Mrs. Von Arsdel sunk 
down upon the soft, green grass, laying her white face 
amid the fresh blossoms growing about her. 

“I will send Bessie to help you home,” the man 
said, handing her the water. 

“You need not, Thomas; I am better now. Give 
me your hand, Ruth. There, that will do. Let us go 
home.” 


LAD Y^S LORD, 


57 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MY lady’s lord. 

Thou art mated with a clown, 

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 

Tennyson. 

Gloaming Grange wore its best look one day, and 
that was the time its master chose for his return. Ruth 
knew that he was looked for ; a few suggestive circum- 
stances had, she thought, fortified her against the possi- 
bility of a disappointment when she should meet him. 
An ideal of manly beauty, to comport with the stateli- 
ness of the Lady of Gloaming Grange, had found no place 
in her imaginings, from which it is fair to presume that, 
by a deductive process, Ruth’s mind had reached the 
conclusion that married life does not always verify that 
perfect harmony which marriage presupposes. The 
sentinel placed upon her thoughts to guard against sur- 
prise was not made of the true, soldierly metal ; or, what 
is still more probable, the assaulting power brought a 
larger force to bear than she was prepared to encounter; 
for, when Mr. Von Arsdel came, Ruth’s resolution not to 
be surprised took flight, and she was left to the mercy 
oC rushing sensibilities too strong to be repressed. 

Two little dull eyes looked from under shaggy eye- 
brows of an undefinable shade ; his hair was black, 
slightly sprinkled with gray, short, stiff, and, like 
6 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


58 

Tommy Traddles’s, *‘hearth-broomy” in its expression. 
There was a look of strength about the forehead which 
one forgot at sight of the weak mouth, whose lines 
straggled and were lost in a general indefiniteness. 

Ruth saw the meeting of the wife and husband, and 
thought she saw, at the same time, the closeted skeleton 
of which she had written to Aunt Rachel. No loving 
greeting on one side, nor warm welcome on the other. 

“ Glad to see you. Miss De Harte, — ^very glad ; yes, 
very glad to see you ! How do you do? Miss De Harte ! 
A pretty name, I declare ! A very pretty name for a 
girl like you !” 

Mr. Von Arsdel, Miss De Harte is a lady, not a 
child, as you seem to think. Will you be kind enough 
to bear that fact in mind, for her sake?” It was his 
wife who spoke. A little shadow gathered upon Ruth’s 
brow, at his words; it passed away at sight of the 
storm that threatened. 

“Always ready for a quarrel — always ready! No 
sunshine to-day I Nothing but clouds, I see ! Miss 
De Harte*seems a little girl, — that’s all, — sweet six- 
teen ! No offense meant, — none given, I hope?” 

“I am almost eighteen.” 

“ Indeed ! so old as that 1 Indeed ! I had no idea ! 
You seem younger ! Fred will be glad to see you ! 
And I am glad, too, — indeed I am, — very glad ! We 
shall be good friends. Miss De Harte?” 

“I hope so,” Ruth said in answer, speaking the 
truth, for the sake of a remote possibility in favor of 
narrowing a visible breach. 

“ Miss De Harte 1 What’s the other name?” 

“Ruth.” 


MV LADY^S LORD. 


59 


‘‘ Ruth De Harte ! Quite pretty, I declare ! Harte 
by name and heart by nature, I suppose, — yes, I sup- 
pose so ! Heart is a bad thing to be troubled witli, 
particularly if you have too much of it, — yes, too much, 
I say. An inconvenient incommodity ! What do you 
think, Leonore?” 

‘‘A most unfortunate heritage for a woman,” she 
answered, in her coldest tone. 

I think so, — I really think so, — most unfortunate 
for a man, — for a man, I say, — or a woman either.” 

do not think as you do, Mr. Von Arsdel,” 
Ruth said, in her clear, sweet voice. It is through a 
woman’s affection that she is patient, gentle, loving, 
and, more than all, truly womanly.” 

” You are a woman, Ruth,” Mrs. Von Arsdel said. 

And so are you,” Ruth answered, in appreciative 
acknowledgment of the pretty bit of suggested com- 
pliment. 

“I hope to see much of you, — yes, much of you, I 
say. Miss De Harte, — and to have nice chats with you. 
I like to hear young people talk, — indeed, I do, — espe- 
cially when they make pretty speeches, as you do, — yes, 
I say it, as you do. Young people have such amusing 
notions,— such amusing notions, I say; that’s why I 
like to hear them talk. Leonore doesn’t talk much 
now, — that is to me; never did, in fact.” 

‘‘Oh, well,” Ruth said, smiling, “Mr. Von Arsdel, 
as women are said to talk too much, those who exercise 
the gift with moderation form the pleasing exceptions 
to the rule, you know; and exceptions are always the 
most interesting because they require the most study, 
besides being so rare.” 


6o 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


Quite true — right — sensible, I declare. Where did 
you get such nice ideas — such very nice ideas ? You 
have nothing else to do, of course — of course not. I 
was fond— yes, very fond, I say — of studying up nice 
speeches myself when I was young. And so are you, 
too, I suppose, — yes, I think so; all young people must 
be alike.” 

‘‘I never study pretty speeches, Mr. Von Arsdel,” 
Ruth answered quietly, for a feeling akin to pity for 
his weakness began to mingle with her thoughts of him. 
‘‘I only speak my own opinions in my own simple 
way. I have no respect for those who label and lay 
by pretty speeches, to be taken out and aired on grand 
occasions. However weak my thoughts may be, at 
least they are my own.” 

She had arisen at these words, and stood near the 
window, with her face toward Mr. Von Arsdel. The 
unmistakable noise of an arrival caused her to turn her 
head toward the open window, from which she saw two 
gentlemen, one of whom she knew to be Fred Von 
Arsdel from the likeness he bore his mother, — the 
same cast of feature, perfected by the expression her 
face lacked for the completeness of its beauty; a more 
easy grace of manner, without her distinguished air. 


SUNLIGHTED DREAMS. 


6 


CHAPTER XX. 

SUNLIGHTED DREAMS. 


When an object makes you experience an agreeable sensation, if 
one asks you why this object is agreeable to you, you can answer 
nothing except that such is your impression. 

Victor Cousin. 

There are days when life itself is a joy ; days so full 
of subtle atmospheric influences, that a newer, a fresher 
and fuller sense of being seems to come to us with 
every breath of air. One such day found Ruth seek- 
ing out-door enjoyment, in “ the wine of the sunshine, 
the dew of the air.” Tired at last, after her return 
from Silver Lake,” more than half a mile distant, she 
entered the house and sat beside the open window, to 
take in all the fairness of the summer scene. But Ruth 
is restless to-day: the walls of the room seem to im- 
pose a restraint that is oppressive. ‘‘I will get my 
book and read in the garden.” She does get her book, 
and, true to the suggestion of her restlessness, goes 
into the garden ; but the letters run together ; she can- 
not read, and closes the book, wearied with the effort. 
The drooping branches of a grape-vine formed the rustic 
arbor, where she sat, resting her head against the tree 
which stood between the house and a blooming parterre, 
from the midst of which a flower-crowned Flora scat- 
tered her treasures of bloom and brightness; at the 
6 * 


62 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


feet of Flora, and forming a circle of vivid cplor, scar- 
let geraniums grew in rich profusion ; just beyond, 
foliage leaves of every hue mingled their variegated 
tints with the delicate pink and white of small-leaved 
border-plants, both making a strong and pleasing con- 
trast with the scarlet blooms in the -centre, and the 
whole forming a harmonious combination of delicious 
fragrance and freshness. Near the garden edge, tall 
plants with long, drooping leaves of alternating green 
and white stripes, formed a background for the tiny- 
leaved, many-tinted flowers bordering a winding walk, 
with the effect of variegated ribbon unrolled in the 
sunshine. The clear waters of a miniature lake re- 
flected the form of Hebe, standing in a clump of 
shrubbery near its margin ; a tiny boat was anchored 
on the opposite shore. Ruth watched the motion of 
the lazy little boat drifting back and forth, till her 
thoughts began to be infected by its idle humor; she 
was idle — musing — dreaming — or in that frame of mind 
which Charles Dudley Warner defines, “To sit in the 
sun and not think of anything.” 

It is a pleasing conceit of ours to dignify with the 
title of “musings” those idle, flitting, shapeless fan- 
cies that are the illegitimate children of thought. 

“Is it a Nymph or Naiad that haunts-this spot?” 
It was the voice of Lester Lockhart, the gentleman who 
came with Fred Von Arsdel a few days before. 

“One of thfe blue-eyed Nine,” Fred said, looking 
towards the book which lay upon the grass. 

“ I hope we have not disturbed your reading?” Mr. 
Lockhart said. 

“ I was only dreaming.” 


SVNLIGHTED DREAMS, 63 

‘‘Building baseless fabrics?” Mr. Lockhart asked. 

“No: listening to Fancy’s interlude.” 

“ Was it harmonious?” 

“ ‘ Softer than petals from blown roses on the grass, 

Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 

Music that gentler on the spirit lies, 

Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.’ ” 

“ Does she repeat her music?” 

“She never sings the same song twice; variety is 
her chief charm. Her melodies change with her moods, 
— sometimes they are in major keys, sometimes minor, 
but always soft, sweet, harmonious.” Ruth seemed 
musing still but that the dreamy thoughts found ex- 
pression. 

Mr. Lockhart had the book in his hand, and was 
slowly turning the leaves. 

“ Do you read Chateaubriand with pleasure. Miss De 
Harte?” 

“With exquisite delight !” 

“Why?” 

“Because he gives expression to my own thoughts. 
His love of nature is a feeling familiar to me, — one that 
comes with the freshness of morning, the brightness of 
noonday, the soft gray of twilight, and- the solemn 
serenity of night. The beautiful creations of Nature’s 
faithful interpreter — Art — too fill me with the delight 
which inust have been his inspiration.” 

“ You are not of those who ‘die with all their music 
in them.’ Miss De Harte, you are an enthusiast.” 

“If to love the beautiful be enthusiasm, I am. ” 


64 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


‘‘You have never traveled.” He spoke in a quiet, 
positive tone of assertion. Ruth was silent. 

“You have not traveled,” he repeated, in the same 
tone, “ therefore you know little of Nature or her 
world ; your opinion of both must be borrowed from 
books.” Ruth’s face flushed. 

“When you shall have seen her in more varied forms, 
the voice whose music charms you now will give less 
pleasure than the ripple of that water there.” ■ 

“You mistake my nature, Mr. Lockhart. ^Intimate 
companionship with those we love endears tTierrPthe 
more by disclosing new beau ties of character , by furnish- 
ing a deeper insight into the motives which actuate 
generous conduct. “Tender emotions, graceful senti- 
ments unfold beneath the touch of a ripening affection^^ 
It is even so with our love for nature, which grows 
steadily with its exercise, until the tiniest form of 
beauty in the world around us bears the impress of her 
care and speaks in grateful tones of Him whose hand- 
maid she is. ‘ Each one of them leads to God, be- 

cause it comes from Him.’ If we do not hear the 
voice, we are deaf to the sweets of harmony.” 

“ What you term harmony, may be harshest dis- 
cord.” 

“There is no discord in Nature’s music.” 

“ Perhaps not, to the uncultured ear. The great 
masters of song would be maddened by sounds which, 
to vulgar ears, seem the soul of music. When the heart 
is in tune with the ‘higher harmonies,’ there is no 
sweetness in the elementary ‘do, re, mi, fa,’ which 
make sweetest music for the uncultured.” 

-Ruth’s face was darkened by a shadow: uncuF 


SUNLIGHTED DEEAMS. 


65 


tured^' had no music in its sound; nor had the charge 
of ‘‘ deafness to the sweets of harmony she forgot the 
latter though, because of that underlying vein of incon- 
sistency in our natures which often makes us say to 
others that which, if said to ourselves, we should not be 
slow to resent. There was a faintly discernible tremor 
in Ruth’s voice as she answered, “May I never rank 
among the number whom exquisite culture renders deaf 
to simple sounds and blind to modest beaflties !” 

“Amen!” Fred said, smiling. He had been an 
interested looker-on. “ Amen, I say, with all my 
heart ! Let us have a cessation of hostilities for the 
present. What say you to an armistice, Lester?” 

“Let us have peace. I make a total surrender to 
superior forces. Miss De Harte obliges me to seek ’ ’ 

“Forces in reserve ?” she interrupted. 

“No: safety in flight,” he answered, walking to- 
ward the house. 

“Is it an unconditional surrender, Mr. Lockhart?” 
said Ruth. 

“A total surrender of forces — arms — ammunition.” 

“ Shall we not have a treaty of peace?” A faithful 
picket guarding the outposts from encroachment sug- 
gested the thought that she had been the assailant : she 
was ready to make amends. 

“A treaty of peace!” he said, returning. “Yes, if 
you will dictate the terms. What shall they be?” 

“Patience.” 

“ Accepted.” 

“Charity.” 

He smiled and bowed acquiescence. 

“ Mutual forbearance.” 


66 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


“It is a compact^ signed, sealed, ana delivered,” 
he said, extending his hand : she gave him her own in 
return. 


CHAPTER XXL 

FRED VON ARSDEL. 


The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one, 

May hope to achieve it before life be done ; 

But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes. 

Only reaps from the hopes which around him he sows, 

A harvest of barren regrets. 

Owen Meredith. 

“The mother’s love is at first an absorbing delight, 
blunting all other sensibilities ; it is an expansion of 
the animal existence : it enlarges the imagined range 
for self to move in ; but in after-years, it can only con- 
tinue to be joy on the same terms as other long-lived 
love, — that is, by much repression of self, and power 
of living in the experience of another.” This power 
lived within the mother-heart, and throve amid the 
blight that ruined every other hope. The strong roots 
of this feeling struck deep and spread themselves widely 
throughout her being, absorbing for their life all the 
natural juices whose want stunted the growth of every 
other feeling. The handsome son reveling in the 
strength of manhood was not less dear than the tiny- 
footed boy who had learned to lisp beside his mother’s 


FRED VON ARSDEL. 


67 


knee. Yet, it was a locked-up love, only betraying its 
presence by such signs as even she could not repress. 
Pride was nearer the surface, — the pride of a mother in 
her only son, — and every word spoken of him, every 
look she gave him, pointed to its existence. 

Fred’s physiognomy was of the kind which carried 
with it the sympathy and interest of all who knew him, 
because of an intense hopefulness of spirit which was 
its best expression. Soft, waving masses of chestnut 
hair lay against a broad expanse of brow, soft and white 
as that of a beautiful woman; eyes like his mother’s, — 
dark, without the deep look that made one long to see 
beyond them, into the soul, nor yet shallow like his 
father’s, but reflecting the light of a happy, hopeful 
nature. 

The curved outline of the mouth had been faultless 
in its beauty but for an expression of irresolution, — a 
want of steady purpose. A man’s mouth needs the 
lines of strength : lacking these, graceful curves do not 
supply tlieir place. So far in life there had been a 
total want of resolute purpose. A graduate of medi- 
cine, the demands of its practice were irksome ; a stu- 
dent of law for a few months, its drudgery — as he called 
it — became distasteful, and he sought mercantile affairs, 
whose dry details gave him no more pleasure than the 
practice of law or medicine. Just now, he seemed 
drifting, he knew not whither — nor cared. We have 
all met men who hushed self-reproach into silence by 
the promise to act when the summons should come. 
Fred Von Arsdel was of this type, though just now his 
purposes even were in a quiescent state. Here was 
the chief difference between his character and that of 


68 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


his friend, Lester Lockhart. The latter possessed the 
power and the will to grapple with difficulty, if not 
mastering, at least gaining strength for the next onset; 
this power was due chiefly to the wonderful antagonistic 
forces hidden away somewhere in his nature, awaiting 
their opportunity. 

Fred drifted helplessly with the current of circum- 
stance, awaiting a favoring gale to help him onward to 
the haven of inclination, but the harbor must be made 
to fit his boat, — that was all. There was intellectual 
power, — his face betrayed it ; but that was a strength 
needing the help of external forces for its best develop- 
ment. At present, no help came, — and so he was idle 
— careless — free. / 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


69 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 

The slumbering venom of the folded snake. 

Byron. 

Mayne Snowden seemed to have been made after a 
velvet pattern. Her face and hands were smooth to 
the touch, her voice low, her step noiseless as though 
she trod on down. There seemed a fitness about the 
coils into which she wound her light hair ; two tiny 
ripples lay across the front, innocent of any design, 
save that of breaking the monotony of a smooth, shining 
surface. 

‘‘Miss De Harte,” she said, meeting Ruth for the 
first time: “the other name?” 

“Ruth.” 

“Ruth De Harte; how pretty and poetic! I shall 
call you Ruth ; it is suggestive. There is an appro- 
priateness too in the name for one so like a Scriptural 
picture. You look just as if you had stepped out of an 
illustrated family Bible to glean among us worldlings 
like the Ruth of old.” 

Mr. Lockhart and Fred were there. Ruth saw that 
one face wore an amused smile,- the other an expression 
of ill-concealed annoyance. “ They too see the implied 
thrust,” she thought, making an effort to suppress an 
upleaping flame. 


7 


70 


LIFER'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


“There is no appropriateness in the name, Miss 
Snowden, since I came not here to glean ; the abundant 
harvest of worldly wisdom has'been gleaned, doubtless, 
by hands more skilled than mine.” 

Fred smiled: the severe face of his friend betrayed 
an awakening interest. 

“ Ruth gleaning among these .fields would be a novel 
sight, and one we should much enjoy. The soft folds 
of your dress would lend an air of classic grace to your 
figure.” 

“True,” Fred said; “and yet, I think our modern 
belles have cause for congratulation in the fact that 
imperious fashion saves them from the harsh effects of 
severe simplicity.” 

Ruth’s grateful look gave him thanks. 

“Fred has become, in truth, a very Chevalier Bay- 
ard^'' Miss Snowden said. 

“ Sans peur et sans reprocheP' Ruth answered. 

“Come, Sir Knight,” the smooth voice said in its 
softest tone, and with a playful gesture, “doff your 
coat-of-mail for the garb of gentle peace. It is not a 
knightly feat to throw the gauntlet down to one of 
gentle mould.” 

“ It is a knight’s dearest privilege to render tribute to 
beauty’s power,” he answered. 

“If the fair one be the lady of his love,” she 
said. 

Ruth’s face and manner betrayed embarrassment. 
Fred’s restlessness afforded a vent for ill-concealed 
impatience. His friend’s face wore a quiet smile; 
Ruth saw it, with a feeling akin to that which arose at 
sight of that other face, with no ebb and flow in its 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


71 


expression. With that kind of desperate energy which 
serves us best in times like this, Ruth’s mind laid 
sudden hold of an unexpected question. 

*‘Mr. Lockhart,” she said, looking out of the 
window, ‘‘do you like flowers in straight rows and 
squares?” 

“Really, Miss De Harte, I have not given the sub- 
ject any thought. Do you like them in straight rows 
and squares?” 

“Miss De Harte,” said Fred, smiling, “if that 
treacherous foe violates one provision of your treaty, 
ask for armed intervention, and he shall have no 
quarter.” 

“Can there be no neutral ground?” Miss Snowden 
asked. 

“ None ; those who are not for us are against us. 
What cause do you espouse?” It was Fred who 
spoke. 

“Like the Chevalier Bayard, that of the oppressed, 
of course.” 

“Miss De Harte,” Mr. Lockhart said, apparently un- 
heeding the interruption, “ do — you- — like flowers — in 
straight rows and squares?” 

There is nothing which so* much resembles ridicule 
to sensitive ears as one’s own words repeated in one’s 
own tone. Her question seemed absurd, addressed 
back to her with her own modulations. A little wish 
lurked in her heart that the flowers had been left to 
bloom undisturbed in “straight lines and squares.” 
But there was no tangible cause for resentment, and the 
question was of her own proposing. 

“Mr. Lockhart,” she said, with an effort towards 


72 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PA Y. 


composure, “is it fair to use my own words in answer 
to my own question?” 

“All things are fair in war and in love^^ Miss Snow- 
den said. 

“ We are not at war,” he said. 

“ Nor in love,” Ruth added. 

An unusual smile played about the corners of his 
mouth. Ruth was ashamed of her weakness, and angry 
— she knew not why. 

“Miss De Harte,” he said, again continuing the 
hateful subject, “ I do not know what I like in flowers: 
will you not be kind enough to assist me in cultivating 
my taste ?” 

“How, Mr. Lockhart?” 

“ Tell me you like them.” 

“ Do you really wish to know ?” 

“ I really wish to know.” 

“ As Nature has them grow !” 

“How is that?” 

“ Here and there, singly and in groups, raising their 
pretty heads in sun and shade, and coming upon one 
from all sorts of unexpected places.” ^ 

“ You do not like straight lines and squares?” 

“ In flower-beds? No !” 

“Why not?” 

“They have a look of mathematical precision; a 
painful regularity that offends the taste. It is a slow, 
steady hand that traces the stiff lines of a mathemati- 
cal figure. Nature does her work in a more lavish way, 
scattering her abundant treasures here and there and 
everywhere. In the arrangement of trees and flowers. 
Nature should be my model.” 


A NE IV ACQUAINTANCE, 


73 

** Is landscape gardening one of your accomplish- 
ments ?” Mayne Snowden said. 

‘‘I have no accomplishments, Miss Snowden.” 

young lady without accomplishments in this 
nineteenth century ! Do you not sing?” 

My feelings find their best expression in music — 
that is all ; even then my music is, at best, an interpre- 
tation. I dd not create.” 

“Finish arranging your flowers. Miss De Harte,” 
Fred said, eagerly. 

“They are arranged, Mr. Von Arsdel.” 

“Lester, propose another question for Miss De 
Harte’s solution, won’t you?” 

“ Miss De Harte has already told me all I wished to 
know, — for which I thank her.” 

“ There is no need for thanks,” Ruth said, “par- 
ticularly if it be true that a woman is best pleased with 
the sound of her own voice.” 

“An enraptured listener detracts nothing from the 
pleasure, I suppose!” Mayne Snowden said, looking 
towards Fred with a significant smile. 

“An enraptured listener I What you doing?” 

“ Paying most respectful attention, of course, though 
not beguiled by the voice of the charmer. Women do 
not talk for each other’s sakes !” 

“What were you doing, Lester?” Fred asked. 

“ Watching the barometer.” 

“ Shall we have a storm ?” 

“ The signs have passed away ; all appearances in- 
dicate — fair weather. ” 

“ Can you trust the signs?” Ruth asked the ques- 
tion. 


T 


74 


LIFES PROMISE TO PAY. 


With unfailing confidence : the barometer of which 
I speak yields to no influences but the truest.” 

It was the barometer of human emotion. Nothing 
escaped his vigilance, — from Mayne Snowden’s soft 
stroking of Ruth’s hair, as if she were a pet kitten, to 
Ruth’s own discernment of the significance underly- 
ing all this sweetness. The affectionate superlatives, 
in which she dealt so largely, came to Ruth like a 
barbed arrow ; and while the poison rankled and the 
irritation grew, yet she could only feel the smart, with- 
out giving definite shape to its cause. An open affront 
is not the worst affront:” it can be resented with a 
righteous indignation ; but secret thrusts can only be 
met and parried by those skilled in the . use of the same 
weapon. Ruth was not one of these. 


LESTER LOCKHART. 


75 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

LESTER LOCKHART. 


Gnats are unnotic’d, wheresoe’er they fly, 

But eagles gaz’d upon with ev’ry eye. 

Shakspeare. 

If the mental make of the men and women who 
surround us were as apparent to the perceptive power 
as are their distinguishing physical characteristics to 
the sense of vision, our knowledge of the laws which 
govern human act would be of a more definable kind 
than t;hat reached through the uncertain gropings of 
supposition. We judge of a man’s mental make by 
his daily life, without stopping to consider how much 
the determining process” that we call “ conduct” 
may be influenced by circumstances, whose shadows 
even we may not see. The world of character is as 
diverse as that of form and figure. The infinite 
minutiae of mental organization, the confused and bewil- 
dering processes by which thought educes action, we 
have no power to reach but by a feeble method of 
analysis, aided by that inherent sense of the fitness of 
things which prompts us to recognize visible signs as 
the index of certain qualities. We are all physiog- 
nomists, in a limited degree, even in our childhood. 

All analysis comes late.” At eighteen, the intuitions 
of girlhood have scarcely given place to the dignified 


76 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


presence of womanly reasoning ; and if, at that time, 
Ruth recognized in Lester Lockhart’s character an 
unusual combination of forces, it was due more to the 
protuberant nature of his qualities than to any acuteness 
of mental vision on her part. An artist would have 
gone further to seek his ideal of manly beauty, because 
perfection of feature, classic clearness of outline, were 
wanting. The combined effect of face and figure was 
an unmistakable expression of vigorous, strongly-marked 
individuality. ‘‘ Qualities of mind are not acquired, 
but cultivated,” says Pascal ; from which we may pre- 
suppose the existence of a mental germ in the beginning, 
of which strong characteristics are the hardy outgrowth. 
In Lester Lockhart’s life there had been no need for 
the kind of action which best develops the energy 
which after all makes the chief difference in men ; yet, 
by a strange combination of the forces by which 
Nature creates, moulds, and modifies character, we have 
here the evidences of that vigorous manhood which we 
expect to find only as the result of severe discipline, 
either self-imposed or forced by the pressure of strong 
external conditions. 


CROWNED WITH AUTUMN LEAVES. 


77 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CROWNED WITH AUTUMN LEAVES. 


The harder match’d, the greater victory. 

Shakspeare. 

A SOFT, golden morning of the early autumn-time, — 
the rounding hills in the distance, with their strong 
assertion of golden green, and a faint suggestion of 
blueness about their tops. Ruth was looking out upon 
the September scene from the rustic seat within the 
grape-vine arbor, reading a page from the volume that 
never closes. The morning-time was so fresh and sweet 
and fair ! Little patches of brightness lay, like bits of 
gold, upon the cool, shadowed spo.ts of the wooded 
places. Many-tinted leaves spun downward through 
the air, and fell uporf^the grass. Away down the long 
avenue that swept through an opening in the wood, 
Ruth saw a figure slowly walking, stopping now and 
then to pick up a leaf that lay in his path. The me- 
chanical motion of his fingers among the richly-colored 
leaves gave unmistakable evidence of preoccupied 
thought. Soon his shadow lay upon the grass just 
beyond her. 

“Are you wreathing a garland to crown the day, 
Mr. Von Arsdel ?” 

“Wreathing a garland to crown the queen of 
the day ! ’ ’ he said, laying the leafy crown upon her 


78 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


hair. There ! I pronounce you a veritable Hama- 
dryad !” 

‘‘ Where is your oblation ?’* 

At your feet !” 

He was kneeling before her. 

“My service does not demand the sacrifice of hu- 
man victims, sir,” she said, with a playful smile. 
“Rise ! and learn of my votaries that milk and honey 
are the most acceptable offerings at my shrine.” 

“ Come, let us seek them !” he said. 

“Where?” 

“ In the woods.” 

“Is this a land ‘flowing with milk and honey?’ ” 

“It is a land whose air is filled with the wine of 
gladness and joy. Come !” 

“ I cannot.” 

“Why?” 

“lam expecting a visitor.” 

“Whom?” 

“ Mayne Snowden.” 

“ Are you glad in the expectation?” 

“ Is that a fair question, Mr. Von Arsdel ?” 

“ It is not, and I withdraw it : not only unfair, 
but unnecessary, since I know that Miss Snowden’s 
visits are a trial to you. For that reason, may I 
not suggest the propriety of shunning unnecessary 
annoyances as much as possible? I always do. Be- 
sides, she will await your return ; and, if she does 
not, so much the better. Come, Miss De Harte, the 
air is glorious!” 

She looked at the sky and trees, then made a motion 
as if to rise, and again seemed to hesitate. 


CROWNED WITH AUTUMN LEAVES. 


79 

Won’t you come?” he said, in a pleading tone. 
‘‘It is better to walk than to sit here dreaming.” 

“ I was not dreaming.” 

“ What then ?” 

“ Castle-building.” 

“ Day-dreams, then, tinged with couleur de rose?’"' 

“Of course : are not all the dreams of youth of a 
roseate hue? They ought to be; for who in the spring- 
time of life would build a castle in the air with dark, 
frowning turrets and dungeon-like towers? The joy 
of castle-building is in weaving into light fantastic 
shapes the airy tissues of our fancies. The soft, dis- 
solving shadows melt away in space ; purplish-tinted 
clouds mass themselves for the foundation-stone ; fleecy 
vapors form the tapering spires; glittering sunbeams 
lend it light and color; Hope lets in the ‘mountain air 
and sunshine;’ and Love and Joy shut out unwelcome 
visitants.” 

“ What is the style of architecture you have adopted 
for your structure?” 

At sound of another voice Ruth turned towards the 
speaker. It was Lester Lockhart. 

“I should be glad to know, not for any practical 
purpose, though ; for, when I build, my house must be 
built upon a more substantial basis than ‘purplish- 
tinted’ clouds, lest it should fall ‘ when the rains de- 
scended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and 
beat upon that house!’ What is its style, Miss De 
Harte? You have not told me.” 

Ruth was silent in the struggle to repress vexation. 

“Is it Gothic, Doric, or Ionic,” he continued. 

“Oh, De Hartic Fred said, laughingly. “You 


8o 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


are too literal, Lester, for any use. Come, Miss De 
Harte, the sunshine is waiting for us : let’s have our 
walk.” 

Too literal for no use, Fred, you should have 
said. Where are you going?” 

For a walk.” 

‘^And you, too. Miss De Harte?” 

“ And I, too.” 

“You know that Miss Snowden will soon be here!” 

“ How do I know?” 

“ Because I tell you so.” 

“And you ” 

“ I have but just come from there.” 

“We shall be gone but a little while, Lester; 
won’t you entertain her till our return?” Harry 
said. 

“ Certainly, and with pleasure in doing so. What 
shall I say by way of apology for your absence, Miss 
De Harte?” 

“Anything you please, Mr. Lockhart.” 

“And if I should please to tell the truth?” 

“Well, what then?” 

“ Does it not occur that the cause — a walk with Fred 
— may not be sufficient to justify your absence?” 

“Perhaps she may forgive my rudeness in considera- 
tion of the substitute I leave in my stead.” 

“You are kind to me,' but not to yourself, believe 
me,. Miss De Harte 1” 

“You think I should not go?” 

“ I know it I” 

“Mr. Von Arsdel, another time we will have our 
. walk. September luxuriates in brightness, and we will 


CROWNED WITH AUTUMN LEAVES. 8l 

select a day free from the probability of interruptions.” 
She was ill at ease with herself. 

One would think you lost sight of everything but 
Miss Snowden’s pleasure, Lester,” Fred said, in an 
annoyed tone. 

‘‘I lose sight of nothing,” he answered, walking 
toward the avenue. 

“ Indeed, I should not have thought of going, under 
the circumstances, Mr. Von Arsdel, but the day is 
tempting, and I love to walk. I hear the carriage- 
wheels now ; go .and meet her, please.” 

Ruth had a moment in which to seek a reconcile- 
ment of the opposing forces that were at war in her 
nature, before she felt the touch of Mayne Snowden’s 
lips against her own. 

‘‘How bright you are this morning, dear!” she 
said, throwing her hat and shawl upon the grass. 
“ That flush upon your cheek is most becoming.” 

“ This atmosphere is exhilarating,” Ruth answered. 

“I do not doubt it,” she said, looking towards 
Fred with a significant smile. “I see you wear a 
crown. Are all your subjects loyal?” 

“Loving, — loyal, — devoted!” Fred said. Ruth 
had forgotten the autumn leaves, and at their mention 
the color swept into her face. 

“ Did I interrupt the coronation scene? Or was it 
only a rehearsal ? Come, now, let’s have a repetition 
for my entertainment, won’t you, Ruth dear?” 

“ With so limited an empire?” she answered, from 
a wicked impulse. “ My subjects are not all here.” 

“ Indeed ! Well, I see one on the lawn ; I will call 
him.” 


82 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PA Y. 


‘‘Do not, Mayne Snowden, I beg!” Ruth spoke 
with passionate eagerness, standing between her and 
the figure on the lawn. “ Do not, I entreat you !” 

“ O, you ambitious little sprite 1 I had no idea that 
you were extending your empire. Mr. Lockhart,” she 
called out, “ come here at once I You are wanted I” 

Confusion, mortification, anger, followed closely 
upon each other — and met. Ruth had no power to 
speak, and did not raise her eyes as he approached. 
Mayne Snowden smiled, well pleased at her success. 

“ Mr. Lockhart, our little Ruth wears a crown, you 
see. She has been transformed into queen of the 
woods.” 

“ Does she dispute Dian’s empire ?” 

“Oh I it is a divided authority, I presume. » At 
any rate, she consents to repeat the coronation scene, 
provided all her subjects are here to do her honor. 
You alone were missing, so I called you.” 

“ Thank you for the privilege.” 

“ I did not consent !” Ruth said, with a hot flush 
upon her face. 

“You did not? Why, Ruth dear, when I made 
the proposition, didn’t you say, ‘ My subjects are not 
all here ’? Be honest, dear?” 

“Be honest 1 I am always honest ! I speak and 
act the truth at all times, because it is my nature. I 
did say those words, without any intention of consent- 
ing to your foolish proposition. You purposely mis- 
construed my words — you always do.” Ruth spoke 
angrily, and the tide of passion spread and deepened 
into a crimson flush. The struggle for self-command 
had ended thus. Here was the result of her effort 


CROWNED WITH AUTUMN LEAVES. 


to be calm — smiling — self-possessed, as the face be- 
fore her. 

Isn’t she a grateful child, Mr. Lockhart? She 
doesn’t mean it, though. Before an hour has passed 
away, she’ll repent her hasty words, and ask my par- 
don. Come ! let’s have the coronation ! Here is the 
crown.” She raised the leaves from Ruth’s head. 

Who claims the right to wreathe the queenly brow? 
You, Mr. Lockhart?” 

‘‘Fred appears to better advantage in dramatic 
scenes; besides, he has had the advantage of a re- 
hearsal.” 

“ Fred,, come !” she said, holding out the autumn 
wreath. 

“ Has not a queen the right to make her own ap- 
pointments?” Ruth said, speaking with a forced com- 
posure, and rising from the seat within the arbor. 

“Without doubt,” Mayne Snowden said. “No 
one disputes that right, if you choose to exercise it.” 

“I do choose to exercise it. Mr. Von Arsdel, I 
reserve you for higher honors — more trusty service. In 
obedience to a royal command, Mr. Lockhart shall con- 
fer the crown, and Miss Snowden bear the regal sceptre. 
Fred, get me a sceptre, quickly !” She had never 
called him Fred before. Taking the crown in her 
Own hand, she placed it in Lester’s, saying, as she did 
so, “ Come !” 

He followed, silently. 

“I am here, in obedience to your command, most 
royal lady, without having learned my part. I regret 
to say that I need prompting.” 

“ I will tell you,” Mayne Snowden said, advancing. 


84 


LIFERS FFOMISE TO PAY. 


Stand there, and repeat what I shall say. Most 
sovereign and gracious queen- ” 

“Most sovereign and gracious queen ” he re- 

peated. 

“Stop!” Ruth interrupted, suddenly. “You for- 
get that I am queen, and will submit to no dictation. 
Take that sceptre, Miss Snowden, and mind you do 
not abuse the trust. Mr. Von Arsdel, come and stand 
here beside me ; be my trusted guide and counsellor ! 
Mr. Lockhart, your place is at my feet. Let me hear 
your oath of fealty.” 

“Your hand, gentle queen ! I swear eternal fealty, 
lady, to your person, and to your crown eternal love 
and service ! I seal the oath with my lips, most gra- 
cious lady.” He bowed low over the little hand in 
his, and touched it with his lips, then placed the 
crown upon her brow in silence. 

Was Ruth avenged ? “ Put yourself in her place.” 


“ INDEFINABL E BO UNDAR Y- LINES: 


85 


CHAPTER XXV. 

‘ ‘ INDEFINABLE BOUNDARY-LINES. ’ ’ 


Les fleurs de la vie sent pour tonjours jetees derriere moi. 

Mme. De StaEl. 

When Mayne Snowden left, — she did leave when the 
day was far spent, — Ruth went to her own room, and 
locked the door, rejoicing in the sense of freedom its 
solitude afforded. Walking the floor with a rapid step, 
she stopped before the mirror now and then, to look at 
the reflection of a face flushed with repressed nervous 
excitement. All day long there had been contests, in 
which the victory was oftenest against her ; when she 
won, it cost her dear, and the conflict left its signs. 
Little details about her room were attended to with 
that kind of mechanical energy which is often the 
accompaniment of tumultuous emotion. What does 
it mean ? Nothing of a very startling character had . 
pressed itself into the small compass of that day’s life. 
She was keenly conscious of angry spite underlying 
Mayne Snowden’s smiles ; of a restless, anxious’ ex- 
pression in Fred Von Arsdel’s eye; of a searching, 
eager look into her face. And her own heart? She 
would admit no questionings. 

The next day was a gloomy one ; heavy winds smote 
the tall grasses, and left them prostrate. Decaying 
8 * 


86 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


leaves whisked about, and spun downward through the 
air. 

‘‘It will rain !” Fred said, walking towards the 
window in the library, where Ruth sat looking out 
upon the hurrying clouds. “ I don’t like rainy days, 
and this one promises me only disappointment, because 
I shall be denied the pleasure of that deferred walk. 
There is.no danger of interruption from an unwelcome 
visitor, and Lester is not here to exercise an untoward 
influence, yet a more adverse element intervenes. I 
miss yesterday’s brightness. The absence of sunshine 
seems to make no difference to you, Ruth.” 

“I recognize and accept the fact that ‘some days 
must be dark and dreary.’ ” 

“I cannot resign myself to unpleasant facts.” He 
stood near the table, turning the leaves of a book, 
without looking at Ruth, yet betraying a painful con- 
sciousness of her presence. 

“ If it might end there,” Ruth said ; “ but, alas ! it 
is as true that ‘ into each life some rain must fall.’ ” 

“ I know it ! I feel it ! 

'“Yet, even the darkest days may be brightened; 
you know that as well, Mr. Von Arsdel.” 

“No, I do not, — at least it seems not so to me. 
Dark days must be wholly dark ; they admit no sun- 
shine ; I can imagine a gloom so deep that even sun- 
light could not penetrate it ; the gloom of your — I beg 
pardon. Miss De Harte, I am not myself to-day, being 
idle, restless, discontented.” 

“You do not seek happiness. You sit with folded 
hands waiting for it to seek you.” She would have 
recalled the words as soon as spoken. 


“ INDEFINABLE BOUNDAR Y-LINESB 


87 


Fred turned quickly, walked across the room, and 
stood before her. A hot flush overspread her face. 

I do seek it,” he said, ^‘but I am- baffled and eluded 
at every turn. I lack the needed skill.” 

“The needed discipline, perhaps,” she answered. 

He was silent for a moment. Ruth was silent, too, 
awaiting an invitation to proceed with what she most 
desired to say; but it came riot in the half-pleading 
tone with which he answered, — 

“ Do you mean that for a reproach ?” 

The reconnoitering thought retreated into silence, 
ashamed of its boldness, and she answered meekly, — 
“ Oh, no ! I only meant to 

“ I know what you meant ; you think me an idle, 
trifling, good-for-nothing fellow. And so I am. So I 
shall ever be, unless some powerful influence shall 
direct the current of my life into a deeper channel.’^ 
He slowly pulled off and scattered the petals of a 
rose that had lent its beauty and fragrance to a cluster 
of flowers in the mantel vase. He had spoken ex- 
citedly. An embarrassing pause succeeded these last 
words. He looked earnestly at Ruth, and with be- 
seeching eagerness awaited her reply. She was still 
silent. 

“I know,” he continued, looking at the scattered 
petals of the unoffending rose, “ I know I am scarcely 
of more value than that poor, shattered flower, but I 
can no more belp it than I could resist the impulse to 
take all that was left it of life and beauty.” 

“The unoffending rose entirely fulfilled its mission, 
Mr. Von Arsdel, to bloom, to brighten with its pres- 
ence, to scatter fragrance, and to die.” * 


88 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


t 

‘‘To be robbed the remnant of a brief life, for the 
gratification of a destructive impulse.” 

“I think you are severe towards yourself, Mr. Von 
Arsdel, but it is the kind of severity that will expend 
itself in words ; you will satisfy and quiet your con- 
science with this kind of self-reproach.” 

“ The impulse that prompts me now is not dictated 
by self-reproach. You mistake me. Miss De Harte ; 
there are no silent censures in my heart, because I do 
not feel impelled to action. My desires are as yet 
‘weak and growing;’ in the fullness of time they may 
reach the perfection of maturity, but I shall wait ” 

“ Wait for a vocation to seek you?” 

“Wait/for happiness.” 

“ Why not seek it?” 

“ I do seek it in the light of your face — the sweet 
sound of your voice — the sight of your true, earnest 
eyes. Ruth — you — are — very — beautiful !” 

“ Will you come in, Mr. Lockhart ?” 

Lester Lockhart stood at the half-open door, appar- 
ently intending to enter. Ruth saw him ; Fred did 
not, for with that nervousness of manner which is often 
an expression of strong, excited feeling, he had drawn 
nearer Ruth, and stood with his back towards the door, 
looking down into her face with an expression strange- 
ly new and strangely powerful. The warm tints of life 
in Ruth’s face paled in the presence of this strong in- 
fluence, that wrought itself into the very fibres of her 
being. The consciousness of a looker-on recalled her 
trembling senses., 

“ Not now,’ ’ Lester had said, in reply to her invitation 
to enter; “another time, thank you,” and passed on. 


UNDER COVER. 


89 

The next moment Ruth darted from the room, rushed 
up-stairs, threw herself upon the bed in her own room, 
and the force of this new emotion spent itself in tears. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

UNDER COVER. 

One word with two meanings is the traitor’s shield and shaft. 

Caucasian Proverb. 

Ruth was alone in Mrs. Sherwood’s room : “ Pascal’s 
Pensees' ’ lay open on her lap. Mayne Snowden came 
in with her usual noiseless tread. 

‘‘Good-morning, dear!” 

Ruth started. “ Why do you always come in so 
quietly ?” she said. 

“ I did not want to startle you.” 

“ That is just what you always do. I hear your voice 
before I feel your presence. Please .do not do so 
again. I cannot bear it.” 

“You are cross this morning 1” 

“ I do not mean to be cross ! But I see no reason 
why an intimate acquaintance should not justify the 
mutual asking of those little details which demand not 
much sacrifice on one part, and contribute much to 
comfort on the other.” 


90 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PA Y. 


I am glad to hear you say so, dear, particularly as 
I have a word to say upon a subject of interest to you ; 
and to me also, because I love you, Ruth, and whatever 
detracts from you gives me pain. You will not be 
angry, will you? You are ‘slow to anger,’ I believe?” 

“I am slow to promise rashly.” 

“Oh! are you? Then I should not dare to mention 
the subject in my thoughts, but for the words prefacing 
this conversation. They give me the liberty. And, 
besides, I have your interest so near at heart ” 

“Pray go on ! Long preludes make me uncomfort- 
able. What is it ? Am I the victim of a foul con- 
spiracy?” Ruth said, smiling. 

“Oh no ! not so bad as that ! But the truth is, Ruth 
dear, you do yourself great injustice. Only last even- 
ing, a gentleman — and one who is a friend of yours — 
discussed your character in a way that was rather com- 
plimentary, on the whole; but he said that you were 
cold as marble — that heart did not at all enter into the 
composition of your nature. Of course, he is mistaken, 
and I told him so; but, Ruth dear, you have a cold 
manner — very ; and what I would say is, that you need, 
in justice to yourself, to be more lavish of affectionate 
words and tender sentiments.” 

Ruth was silent. 

“ Will you, dear?” 

“No!” 

“Why?” 

“Because to feign a feeling is hypocrisy.” 

“ To feign a feeling ! Then you are a little iceberg, 
and l am wasting time. I must first impart affection 
to your frozen nature.” 


UNDER COVER. 


91 


There must be genuine heat to thaw an iceberg !” 

‘‘Then, you do not repel the charge. I am unpre- 
pared for so broad an admission as that. Come here, 
Fred, and hear something of Ruth ; something she tells 
of herself.” Fred was crossing the hall, going towards 
the garden. 

“ I had quite a discussion about Ruth’s character last 
evening ; it devolved upon me to defend her against 
what I considered an unjust attack. I tell her of it 
now, and she acknowledges the truth of the charge.” 

“ What was it ?” 

“ She was said to be a woman without a heart.” 

“ And your defense?” 

“I pleaded charity for the mental and moral pecu- 
liarities for which we are none of us responsible. 
Wasn’t that giving full protection to my friend? — 
covering her defects with the broad mantle of charity ?” 

“ Such protection as wolves give to lambs,” he mut- 
tered, so that only Ruth heard him ; but Mayne Sfiow- 
den saw the darkening look upon his face. 

“ The Chevalier grows fierce; the next tinle Miss De 
Harte’s character is discussed, I shall refer those inter- 
ested to Mr. Fred Von Arsdel for more definite infor- 
mation than I can furnish.” She smiled the same 
bland, hateful smile, standing near Ruth with her hand 
upon her shoulder. Ruth arose, and left the room with- 
out a word. A flushed face looked away from the dark 
eyes that searched hers as she crossed the hall. Fred 
followed, and called to her as she ran up the stairs. 

“Miss De Harte, may I see you a moment?” She 
stood still without speaking. 

“ That woman’s taunts are reaching insult : you must 


92 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


be wounded ; would that I could offer an atonement !” 
An uncertain quiver of the lip told him that she dared 
not trust herself to speak ; with a look full of thanks 
she turned to go. 

‘‘ Will you go with me upon the lake this evening? 
The nights are glorious !” 

She bowed assent, and went on. 

The wounded feeling had given place to anger — de- 
fiance — bitterness. Such a tumult of passion had not 
raged within her heart since the days when Aunt 
Rachel sought by gentlest means to curb its violence. 
The flame of anger burned upon her cheek, — shot its 
flash from her eye, and sent its lightning to her brain, 
blinding the mental vision, and paralyzing every faculty 
of her soul with its electric shock. When at last it 
passed away, she had new strength — the strength to sit 
quietly, think calmly, and analyze clearly the words 
that had caused this tumult. 

^‘A gentleman said them. Lester Lockhart spent 
the evening there, I know ! It was he ! And in her 
presence ! • How I hate them both !” She wiped away 
every trace of tears, and at dinner was calm, self-con- 
trolled. Well, it is said, and said truly, by one who 
knows well the human heart, and has explored its 
devious ways, its labyrinthian passages, its deepest and 
darkest recesses, ‘‘We mortals, men and women, de- 
vour many a disappointment between breakfast and 
dinner time ; keep back the tears, and look a little pale 
about the lips, and in answer to inquiries say, ‘ Oh, 
nothing !’ Pride helps us, and pride is not a bad thing 
when it only urges us to hide our own hurts — net to 
hurt others.” 


STILLE LIEBE: 


93 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

‘‘STILLE LIEBE.” 

It was not strange : for in the human heart 
Two master passions cannot co-exist. 

Campbell. 

“ May I come in, Miss De Harte ?” 

“ If you will not expect to be entertained, Mr. 
Lockhart. ’ ’ 

“ May I not appropriate such passages of that soft 
melody as best suit my mood?” 

“Are your thoughts attuned to sounds as sad as 
these ? I am only striking random chords of the ^ Stille 
Lieber^ 

“As an accompaniment to sadness?” 

“ As a pastime for an idle moment : I am, waiting for 
Mr. Von Arsdel. We are to row upon the lake this 
evening.” 

“Shall you walk to the lake?” 

“ Oh, yes ! I prefer to walk.” 

“ When you have pleasant company, you might have 
added.” 

“ That was an implied condition, of course. I shall 
have pleasant company !” 

“ I do not doubt it ! /shall be there !” 

“I did not mea.n you, Mr. Lockhart !” 

“ Need you tell me so ?” 

^ 9 


V 


94 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


“Yes ; because I would not be misund,erstood !’* 

“ I knew your meaning perfectly.” 

“Yet you sought to make me believe you did not ! 
You are ungenerous, Mr. Lockhart !” 

“ And you unkind !” 

“ What other sin shall next be added to the cate- 
gory?” 

“ Pride !” 

She looked into his face with a sudden look of won- 
der: it seemed Aunt Rachel’s voice. 

“But I am losing time,” he said, speaking in his 
usual tone. “ I shall be upon the lake this evening for 
a race with Fred.” 

“ Who said that Mr. Von Arsdel will race this even- 
ing? Is he a party to the contract?” 

“/ say so ! Fred will become a party to the con- 
tract in due time !” 

“Is your will omnipotent, Mr. Lockhart?” 

“ No, but powerful !” 

“ The race shall not be, Mr. Lockhart !” 

“Why?” 

“ Because /wish it !” 

“ And if it should ” 

“ Then is your will stronger than mine !” 

“ If I should win ” 

“You shall wear the laurel !” 

“ Will you bestow it?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Shall it be left for me to choose?” 

“ If you should be the victor? Yes !” 

“I shall hQ victor, and I will choose ” 

“Whatl” 


^^STILLE LIEBE: 


95 


A leaf from your journal !” 

‘‘I have no journal !” 

“ What then ?” 

‘‘A kind of leather-bound chiffoniere in which 
random thoughts are stowed away.” 

‘‘ May I chqose the page ?” 

‘‘ Not by selection 1” 

‘‘ By guess, then ! Any page will do !” 

Ruth was self-confident, secure in the possession of 
power where Fred was concerned; Lester Lockhart 
knew himself too well for doubt. 

Ruth is left alone with her thoughts in the deepening 
gray of the twilight hour. She arises from the piano, 
stands beside the window, and looks out upon the 
gathering darkness. It furnishes no accompaniment 
to tumultuous thought, and she walks across the room, 
stopping before the mirror that fills a recess between 
the windows. Twilight is kind to the restless girl, — 
hiding in its gray folds a hot, flushed face. The stars 
are coming out one by one : Ruth watches the silver 
lights till her eyes are weary with watching, and she 
turns away with a little sigh. Again the soft notes of 
** Stille Liebe'^ float through the room. They find an 
answering chord in a human heart. Ruth lays an 
aching head upon two feverish hands, and the tide of 
tears comes on. Ah me ! lie Liebe 


96 


LIFERS PROMISE JO PAY. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

TWO TIDES. 

With thee conversing, I forget all time. 

Milton. 

Silver Lakc lay calm and clear in the moonlight. 
The night was very still ; such a one as often settles 
upon earth at the close of a soft, golden day. The 
stillness of the beautiful night reconciled the discord- 
ant forces in Ruth’s heart : she hid her tears in the 
darkness, and hushed her sobs into silence. The even 
cadence of the dipping oars harmonized with the 
peaceful influences that wrought upon her spirit : all 
nature was so tenderly beautiful in the first sweet 
silence of repose. 

Panoramic beauties floated upon the quivering, golden 
surface. Silvery, thread-like lines seamed the crink- 
ling water ; glittering shreds of gold sparkled and 
danced in the moonlight. The little boat seemed float- 
ing in a path of nebulous gold.” The dipping of the 
oars added its measured rhythm to the music of the water. 

^‘How beautiful!” Ruth said, in a low tone, as if 
speaking with her own thoughts. 

‘‘That long, unbroken trail of golden light seems.a 
bridge thrown from the portcullis of the sky to let our 
flitting fancies over 1” Fred, too, spoke in a half- 
soliloquizing tone. 


TWO TIDES. 


97 

‘‘You have the poet’s imagination, Mr. Von Ars- 
del!” 

‘^‘ And his inspiration,” he added. 

There was a tone in Fred’s voice which gave Ruth 
an uncomfortable sensation : a feeling that she might 
be subjected to an emotional torture for which she was 
illy prepared. With no clearly-defined intention, but 
with a vague sense of desire to escape from a subject 
that might be fraught with unpleasant consequences, 
she said suddenly, — 

“Do you ever write, Mr. Von Arsdel?” 

“ Sometimes : perhaps I am drifting thither.” 

“Does a writer ever drift, Mr. Von Arsdel? I 
thought that the need within himself was the resistless 
current that hurried him on towards the haven of 
authorship ! The need begets desire, and desire, ex- 
pression ! Have you ever felt this need, Mr. Von 
Arsdel?” 

“Yes; but remembering that 


• Young men, — ay, and maids, — 
Too often sow their wild oats in tame verse 
Before they sit down under their own vine 
And live for use. Alas, near all the birds 
Will sing at dawn ‘ 

“And yet,” Ruth interrupted, “we do not take the 
chaffering swallow for the holy lark.” 

The sound of other oars reached them. 

. “Lester and Miss Snowden are in that boat; he 
told me they would be out to-night.” 

“ Let us wait for them !” Ruth said. 

She had not forgotten Lester’s words, and was there- 

9 * 


98 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


fore anxious for the contest. Fred relaxed his hold 
upon the oars ; the other boat gained steadily. 

“ Here am I, true to my word,” Lester said, rowing 
close beside them. “I am out this evening for two 
purposes : the least important is a race with you, Fred ! 
What say you ? A run for Shell Bay, this quiet night, 
will be splendid exercise !” 

“What say the ladies?” Fred answered. 

“ One of the ladies has been consulted, and is more 
than willing,” Mayne Snowden said. 

“And you, Miss De Harte?” Fred asked. 

- “ I prefer drifting downward.” 

“Then we will not run for Shell Bay to-night,” 
Fred said, in a positive way. 

“ Can we not persuade you to alter your decision. 
Miss De Harte? Is that decree irrevocable?” 

“Irrevocable, Mr. Lockhart!” 

“Even with Miss Snowden’s entreaties added to 
mine?” 

“ I shall be deaf to all persuasive influences !” 

“So far from offering any persuasion,” Mayne 
Snowden said, in her softest tone, “ I should rather 
apologize for this unseemly interruption. The night is 
so full of beauty, and the scene so suggestive of tender 
sentiment, that it is possible we may disturb the har- 
mony of the picture, or at least lend it a shadow too 
dark for the completeness of its beauty. Let us go on, 
Mr. Lockhart !” 

“ We will have the race !” Ruth said, speaking from 
an impulse she could not control. 

Two boats darted away, leaving behind a long line 
of sparkling liquid gold. 


TWO TIDES. 


99 


On — on — they flew like white-winged gulls skimming 
the surface of the water. The oars went down through 
rifts of blue, girdling the fluted water: with a soft, 
rhythmic cadence, up again — down — up — down: 
the moonlight dances in the up-leaping drops — the 
boats speed on — Lester’s just ahead. 

‘‘They are gaining, Fred! Do not let them — do 
not let them !” 

“ It is not a race for life, Ruth 1” 

“ No ; *but it is a race for ” 

‘ ‘ Be quiet, Ruth : I cannot row and hear your voice I ’ ’ 

“ I will ! but pass them. Oh, you do — we will gain ! 
We are ahead — we gain 1 Thank you — thank — another 
minute. There — at last !” 

Fred’s boat had reached the shore. With one bound 
Ruth leaped out, and waved her handkerchief in the 
moonlight. The other boat was in. 

“You are vain of conquest. Miss De Harte 1” Lester 
Lockhart said. 

“ I am proud of victory, Mr. Lockhart !” 

“Are you ? Then he who enumerated pride in the 
category of your sins is a correct reader of human 
nature. Miss De Harte.” 

“ He spoke truly in one regard 1” 

“ One only?” 

“The victory he prophesied unto himself brought 
no triumphal honors !” 

“ It brought the only triumph it sought 1 The pro- 
phet has earned his reward 1” 

“Mr. Von Arsdel, cannot we talk in parables?” 
Mayne Snowden said to Fred, with the same charac- 
teristic smile upon her face. 


lOO 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


\ 

I 

‘‘It is cold and growing late ; let us return,” Ruth 
said, turning towards Fred. 

“ Another time we will deal in figures, Miss Snow- 5^ 
den; to-night, fact is too persistent ! Come, Miss De | 
Harte!” Fred answered. ^ 


CHAPTER XXIX. ■ 

UNDER THE STARS. 

Life and the world and mine own self are changed 
For a dream’s sake. 

Christina Rossetti. 

“At last we are alone again,” Fred said, with the 
first motion of the boat. “I am glad: that woman’s 
presence is oppressive, and Lester — what can Lester 
mean? Does he love her? Is it possible that he loves 
her?” 

“ It is possible.” 

They glided on, Fred rowing, at first mechanically 
— then listlessly — at last not at all — and they drifted, 
borne on by the current. He was but vaguely con- 
scious of the moonlit scene and its quiet beauty ; there 
was no world for him beyond that little boat ; a sweet, 
delicious sense of present happiness filled his entire 
being. Ruth’s world lay beyond. Antagonistic ele- 
ments raged fiercely. The rippling tones about her — 


UNDER THE STARS. 


lOI 


the low music of night’s solemn sounds — the shadowy 
banks sleeping in the moonlight — the little stars cast- 
ing “ shadow patterns” upon the water ; all these made 
no part of the emotion intensified by the soft ‘‘ dip, 
dip” of those distant oars. Restless, eager eyes looked 
into hers, catching a glimpse of something that stirred 
her nature ; something vague and undefined, to which 
the hope within him lent form, color, substance. They 
were both silent — she, busy with her own world — he, 
from an exquisite sense of joy that needed no words 
for its best expression. 

“If this might never end,” he said, at length, 
dreamily. 

“ Never end ?” she echoed. 

“ Ruth,” he said, speaking in a passionate tone, and 
leaning towards her with a look full of intense be- 
seeching, — “if I might know before we reached that 
shore, that you would never leave us — that you loved 
me enough to stay with us always — that we were drift- 
ing towards a lifetime happiness, sweet, powerful, all- 
pervading as this hour’s joy, — if I might know it, 
Ruth. You turn your face away from me, and are 
silent. Look at me, dearest; your eyes are full of 
tears. Speak! Ruth, tell me.” 

“ I cannot, I dare not speak. I am too cowardly.” 

“I can wait, Ruth; I will wait and hope, if there 
are reasons why you may not tell me now.” 

“ There are no reasons, Fred, but that I cannot 
trust myself ” 

“I can trust you, darling, and I do — with a trust so 
full, so entire, that it admits no doubt. My own — 
pardon me — it is not my right to call you so ; but I am 


102 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


hurried on to speak these words, Ruth, impelled by a 
fate that is fashioning our lives in its own way.” 

“Fate is the hand-maid of. Providence,” she said, 
pulling to pieces a white rose that had fallen from her 
hair, and watching the petals float upon the water. 
Pale drifts upon the current; ye are the shadows of 
the “ Stille Liebe. ’ ’ 

“ There is our landing-place ; do not pass it, or we 
shall be late.” 

“ And my answer, Ruth ?” 

“In one month from to-night, you shall know.” 

“ So long?” 

“You can wait, you said.” 

“And in the mean time?” 

“Try to be happy.” 

“ I am happy,” he said, with a beaming look. “ And 
I shall be happier,” was the answering thought. 


ANAL YT/C. 


103 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ANALYTIC. 

All analysis comes late. 

Mrs. Browning. 

Ruth had pre-determined no course of action ; her 
impulses and emotions formed the resistless tide that 
hurried her on towards a wretched certainty. Fred 
Von Arsdel’s ardent, sanguine nature made the warp 
and her own pride the woof of a web of falsehood and 
deceit. She knew it — felt it — was sorry from her in- 
most soul, and yet gloried, with a silent triumph, in 
the consciousness that the means were placed at her 
command to hide within her own heart that other 
presence whom she would not question, and dared not 
meet. ‘‘They shall never know — though it kill me,” 
was the thought that ruled her life with imperious 
power — that controlled her acts — dictated a line of 
conduct unconsciously to herself, and stifled or re- 
pressed every emotion that struggled towards the sur- 
face. This determining power wrought itself into her 
life with resistless force, and the current of her desires 
bore it on. Yet no element of her nature approxi- 
mated untruthfulness. She was yet “ weak and grow- 
ing;” that was all. She needed direction too: not 
direction, in a leading sense ; human nature does not 
follow at the beck and call of wisdom or experience ; 
but the calm, clear-headed judgment of a mind not 


104 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


bewildered by the intricacies of tumultuous emotion 
would have seen and pointed out the falsehood con- 
cealed by the haze which not only surrounded outer 
objects, but likewise diiumed her mental vision. Love 
puts the bandage on our eyes that makes us blind, and 
pride ties the knot and helps to keep it there. 

That night, in her own room, everything came 
thronging back upon her memory with a tumultuous 
rush. The scene in the drawing-room with Lester 
Lockhart — the Stille Liebe '' — the wretched boat- 
ride and the miserable certainty it forced upon her. 

The struggle did not promise to be short nor easy; 
at the very outset, a look of weariness came into her 
face. She seemed stifled with the close air of an ‘‘un- 
windowed heart,” shutting out the light of peace and 
hope. There was no way to “let the air and out-door 
sights sweep gradual gospels in.” It is not strange 
that, despite a resolve made with the energy of des- 
peration, an unusual paleness began to dim the roses in 
her cheek, and a look, as of weariness, threw a shadow 
amid the ever-changing lights that made the beauty of 
her expression. 

She had come a girl — she would go a woman. The 
transformation scene had been in her own heart. The 
curtain should never “go up” upon that inner life. 
Such was the form of her resolves, yet the morning 
following the boat-ride found Ruth pale about the 
mouth, and with a tremulous tone in her voice, when 
she said, in answer to Mrs. Von. ArsdeFs unusually 
gentle inquiry, “I have headache, that is all.” 

“And heart-ache, my poor, sad child; that of all 
evils is the worst. God help you.” 


ANAL VTIC. 


105 

The unspeakable misery of her tone, fraught with 
a deep, sad meaning, aroused Ruth’s mind from the 
intense self-consciousness into which all her thoughts 
were concentrated. Her attention was now diverted 
into a channel where sorrow was deeper than her own. 
It was the sorrow of a life whose shadow she had seen, 
and, in its presence, Ruth lost sight of her own. The 
demons of pride and anger that had girded on their 
armor for the contest lurked and hid their heads in 
shame before the gentle sympathy that filled Ruth’s 
heart for this proud, unloving woman, upon whom 
sorrow must have fallen so heavily. 

Even the wondering inquiry, “ How did she know?” 
found no place in Ruth’s thoughts for the time ; it was 
hours after, before she put the question to herself in 
all its bearings, “ How did she know?” 


10 


BOOK III. 

GOLDEN GRAIN. 


“ Go not to glean in another field, neither go from hence.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

AUTUMN ROSES. 

I have no other but a woman’s reason ; 

I think him so, because I think him so. 

Shakspeare. 


You have been ill, Miss De Harte?” 

“ Oh no, not ill : only an attack of headache, to which 
I am subject.” 

“ Do those brown eyes always put on that heavy look 
for so slight an ill? They look as if wearied with 
watching. They are tell-tale eyes !” 

“ What do they tell ?” 

A tale of tears and heartache.” 

‘‘You mistake the signs, Mr. Lockhart.” 

“ Do I ? Do not clouds portend a storm ?” 

“ Does my face wear a cloud ?” 

“ It has passed away — the tempest has spent its fury^ 
but there are still traces of its presence in the faded 
rose of your cheek — the shadowed light of your ey?.” 

“Do you read faces, Mr. Lockhart?” 

“I seek to read yours. Longfellow says, ‘Some 
faces speak not. They are books in which not a line 
io6 


AUTUMN ROSES. 


107 


is written, save perhaps a date. Others are great 
family Bibles, with both the Old and New Testaments 
written in them. Others are Mother Goose and nursery 
tales.’” 

‘‘Which of these includes mine?” 

“ Yours tells much of which Longfellow speaks not.” 

“ Does it bear a date ?” 

“It tells of having seen the flowers of seventeen 
summers come and go.” 

“ Then it does bear a date?” 

“It bears besides a wonderful likeness to a face I 
have seen before — that of Rachel Grey ! Is it a fami- 
liar name?” 

“ Rachel Grey !” Ruth repeated, in astonished tones. 
“Mr. Lockhart, Rachel Grey is my own aunt, my 
mother’s only sister.. Where did you hear the name ?” 

“ When I met you first I was reminded of one I had 
seen before. The likeness grew at certain times, when 
your face wore an expression I have seen upon it but a 
few times ; the first, that morning in the garden, when 
you dictated terms of peace ; I violated its provisions, . 
because of an irresistible desire to recall the same ex- 
pression, and it came again, when I provoked your in- 
dignation against the unoffending flowers in ‘lines and 
squares;’ a third time, I saw the self-same look upon 
your face, when I met you in the hall one day after you 
had had a conversation with Mayne Snowden. It 
flashed upon me then with the distinctness of a well- 
remembered dream. It was the same expression that 
I had seen on the face of a beautiful picture among the 
treasures of one whom I know well and love.” 

“ Whose face was it?” 


io8 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


^‘That of Rachel Grey.” 

My own Aunt Rachel ?” 

‘‘The very same. I wrote my friend the circum- 
stance; his answer contained the information of your 
age — and more. So, after all, I am not as skilled in 
the reading of human nature as I would have had you 
believe.” 

“ May I know the name of your friend, Mr. Lock- 
hart?” 

“ I am not at liberty to give it, because he re- 
quested secrecy for some reason that I do not under- 
stand. At any rate, you will preserve the trust.” 

“Religiously!” 

“ And now may I know what caused that unusual 
look the day 1 met you in the hall?” 

“Wounded pride.” 

“And why that pale, sad face to-day?” 

“ Because again of wounded pride.” 

“ I am reminded of the words spoken by one of 
Bulwer’s characters : ‘ In beginning the world, if you 
don’t wish to get chafed at every turn, fold up your 
pride carefully, put it under lock and key, and only let 
it out to air upon grand occasions. Pride is a garment 
all stiff brocade outside, all grating sack-cloth on the 
side next to the skin.’ Is it not salutary counsel?” 

“A good precept, that is all.” 

“ How did Miss Snowden rouse the slumbering ser- 
pent?” 

“ By repeating unkind words.” 

“ Unkind words ! Who spoke them ? 

“Lester Lockhart.” 

“Are you sure?” 


AUTUMN ROSES, 


109 


‘‘Yes.” 

“Yet you did not hear him?” * 

“No.” 

“ Not long since I heard you read aloud these words : 
‘ We know very well that words taken out of their con- 
text are very different from what they are in it. Ex- 
perience has taught us that repeated wofds are hardly 
ever exact ; and, even when exact, they put on a new 
character by being separated from manner, tone, look, 
and circumstance. The unkindness of repeated words 
is more often from the mind of the reporter than from 
the mind of the original speaker.’ Do you remember 
those words?” 

“Ido.” 

“They were soon forgotten.” 

“Remembered, but not applied. The books we 
read are full of wisdom, so are the lessons we daily 
learn, yet, how rarely we follow their teachings !” 

“Another time ‘do as you would be done by,’ and, 
when again you are told that I have spoken ill of you, 
act out your honest nature, and do me the justice to 
say, ‘ Lester Lockhart, did you speak those words ?’ 
Will you?” 

“I cannot promise.” 

“ It will not soon occur again. I shall leave next 
week. ’ ’ 

“Next week! So soon!” 

“Soon ! I have been here for months.” 

“ For months ! So you have ! It seems strange ’ ’ 

She hesitated, and looked steadily out the window. 

“ What seems strange ?” 

“ That you should know of Aunt Rachel. T. hat is 
10* 


no 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


why you seemed to make my face a study. I have 

often wondered ” 

‘‘ That is only one reason ; and the least.” 

“ The other ” 

“I will tell you another time; Miss Snowden is 
coming: I must go to meet her.” • • 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

PAGE 83. 

“ Happiness falls suddenly from the bosom of the gods.” 

A WEEK had passed since the boat-ride. The battle 
of emotion was still raging fiercely in Ruth’s heart, 
but she was slowly learning the lesson of self-repression, 
and practicing its teachings, so that beyond an un- 
wonted quiescence of manner, there was no change in 
her outer life that might not be accounted for by every- 
day causes. We have much to be thankful for — we 
human beings — in the fact that in the fashioning of 
our complex natures the Divine Hand was merciful in 
the withholding of that exquisite refinement of sensi- 
bility whose power would give torture to our daily life. 
It is a blessing that however loud the heart may seem to 
beat, its tones never reach beyond ourselves; and, as 
sad eyes and pale faces are no unusual sights in this 
every-day world of ours, it is not often that they 
excite more than a questioning look — a passing com- 


PAGE 83 . 


Ill 


ment. George Eliot writes : “ That element of tragedy 
which lies in the very fact of frequency has not yet 
wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind ; 
and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. 
If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary 
human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow 
and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that 
roar which lies on ' the other side of silence. As it is, 
the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stu- 
pidity.” 

Mayne Snowden came and went, but her pale eyes 
told no tales. There was no ebb and flow of impulsive 
feeling in that face, because there were no great tides 
of passion in her heart. She had just gone, leaving a 
poison to rankle, as was her wont. The days had been 
cool ; the fire gave a bright look to the library, where 
Ruth sat, thinking of Mayne Snowden ; need it be said 
that her thoughts were not of the gentlest kind ? Les- 
ter Lockhart had accompanied Miss Snowden to her 
home, which lay just within sight of Gloaming Grange. 
“ He will remain there,” Ruth thought ; “I shall have 
an hour alone in this bright room.” But Lester did 
not remain, and Ruth was sitting before the fire watch- 
ing its changeful lights and shadows when he came in. 

“I expected to "find no one here,” he said. 

“ If you are disappointed, I will go,” Ruth said, 
rising. 

“ I am not disappointed. Miss De Harte, but glad 
to find you here alone.” He looked into her face as 
if searching for something. Ruth did not raise her 
eyes from the red lights that leaped, danced, flickered, 
paled, then darkened and fell into ashes. 


II2 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


** Do you remember, Miss De Harte, that you are in 
my debt ?” 

I have not forgotten, Mr. Lockhart.” 

‘‘And yet you make no effort to discharge the obli- 
gation.” 

“I am waiting for the bill.” 

“Waiting to hQ dunned for payment of an honest 
debt? That is not like you, Ruth.” Hia voice, when 
he spoke her name, had an intonation that made a thrill 
vibrate through the very fibres of her being. 

“Not like me? How do you know?” still without 
looking up. 

“ Because pride does not wait for reminders ; pride 
takes every precaution to avoid that which might 
wound its sensibilities.” 

“ What if an opposing force should be stronger?” 

“ There is no such force in your nature.” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“ By intuition.” 

“ Your intuitions deceive you, Mr. Lockhart. That 
I have my full quota of pride — perhaps more — I do 
not doubt ; but you locate it wrongly.” 

“I locate it predominant in your nature.” 

“ But in the wrong direction.” 

“Explain.” 

“ The pride that would impel me to discharge a just 
obligation in order to avoid a reminder of the debt 
does not exist : another pride is in its stead.” 

“ One that prompts you to await a demand for pay- 
ment? That is a distinction without a difference ; or, 
if there be a difference, it is in favor of the pride you 
do not claim.” 


PAGE 83 . 


113 

‘‘ Perhaps. I simply assert the fact, without any 
attempt at argument or defense.” 

You are just !” 

“Am I? It is cause for congratulation that, amid 
so much evil, you discern a little good.” 

“ It is cause for congratulation that my powers of 
discernment are not so dull as you have thought them.” 

“I have not thought of you at all.” 

“Then you are not just. It would be but fair to 
give me some consideration in exchange for that which 
I have given you ; don’t you think so. Miss De Harte?” 

“For the purpose of critical analysis?” 

“Of course; that is all.” 

“Ido not care for analytic study, Mr. Lockhart. 
That fact of itself is sufficient reason for never having 
given your character any amount of consideration.” 

“ Then you are decidedly unjust^ Miss De Harte; so 
unjust, that I venture you will dispute my claim to that 
page ” 

“ Wait here, and I will bring it.” 

Lester Lockhart’s face relaxed as ^luth left the room, 
and a bright smile cleared away the serious look it had 
worn when Ruth was there. 

She returned, holding the little morocco-bound book 
in her hand. “ I have written one hundred and seventy- 
nine pages,” she said, standing beside the table, where 
the fire’s best light fell upon her face, giving an in- 
tense brightness to its fresh, warm tints. “ Which 
one will you have, Mr. Lockhart?” 

“ Let me see the headings — the dates — won’t you ?” 

“ That would not be according to contract. Choose 
by guess, or the agreement shall be forever null and 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


114 

void, because of your failure to comply with its condi- 
tions.” 

‘‘ You are a little tyrant !” he said, smiling. 

“ Sin number four — tyranny!” with an arch look in 
her face. When will the list be filled, Mr. Lock- 
hart?” 

“ The next item will appear when I shall have seen 
that page. One hundred and seventy-nine ! Let me 
see ! Then I choose eighty -three. There’s luck in odd 
numbers, they say. ’ ’ 

Eighty-three,” she said, turning the leaves quickly, 
and when she had reached the number, running her 
eye down the page. “ Oh, Mr. Lockhart, take an- ’ 
other! Please take another, — won’t you?” she said, 
pleadingly. 

I will take no other in the stead of eighty-three'^ 

“ But I cannot show you this one, Mr. Lockhart ; it 
is about yourself.” 

That is the page I must see.” 

‘‘It is not complimentary, Mr. Lockhart.” 

“ Another reason why I want it.” _ 

“ But, Mr. Lockhart, it is very uncomplimentary 

“You strengthen my cause and weaken your own 
with every word you speak. I must see that page 

“Then see it ! If you will know what I think of 
you, why should I care?” She spoke in a vexed, impa- 
tient tone, placing the book on the side of the table 
next to him. 

“ I prefer that you should read it for me.” 

“ That is not a provision of the contract.” 

“ No ; but you can afford to be generous.” 

“ To a fallen foe I could.” 


PAGE 83 . 


IJ5 


“ And not to your friends?” 

‘‘You are not a friend. Give me the book ! I will 
read it !” 

“Be seated, won’t you ?” ,He drew a soft crimson- 
cushioned chair near the fire, just opposite his own. 
“ Now, take that chair, and read j I am ready to hear 
you.” 

Ruth ran her eyes down the page again, then looked 
up into his face, as if to gain assurance for the work 
before her. She found the needed help, for in a tone 
betraying the slightest tremor, she read^ “All whom 
I have met, but two, are pleasant, kind, and try to 
make me happy. Those two are Mayne Snowden and 
her friend, or lover, Lester Lockhart.” 

“Shall I go on, Mr. Lockhart?” she said, without 
raising her eyes from the book. 

“ Oh, yes; go on ! I am deeply interested.” 

“ I hate them both,” she continued; “at least, I 
know I hate one^ and try to hate the other. The 
woman with coiling hair, and eyes that have no depth, 
and the man that always seems searching for some- 
thing in my face. As if I were a sealed book, and my 
face its index ! I wonder why, — yes, ever and ever, I 
find myself still wondering why.” 

“ That is all,” she said, closing the book, and rising 
from her chair. 

“Thank you. Miss De Harte; you read most natu- 
rally 

Ruth was on her way towards the door. Lester 
walked rapidly across the room, and stood before her. 

“You shall not go, Ruth! Come back! I have 
something to say.” 


Il6 LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY, 

must/’ she said, struggling to release her hands 
from his. “ Let me go !” 

‘‘Your eyes are full of tears, — angry tears,— and you 
tremble. Be yourself, Ruth ! Come back with me!” 
He led her gently to a chair, and seated himself beside 
her. “ Ruth, would you know why I make your face 
a study? It is because — I- — love — -you!'' Still hold- 
ing her fluttering little hands with a firm yet tender 
grasp, he looked down into her face with an eager, in- 
tense look. She did not speak. 

“Will yofl tell me, Ruth, why you wrote those 
words?” She was silent still. “You do not speak. 
See, I hold your little hands in mine. You do not 
struggle to free them. There is a new look in your 

face — a new light in your eye, — and it tells me ” 

“ That — I — love— you, — Lester !” 

“ My little brown-eyed, gentle-voiced Gleaner ! My 
Ruth! My darling!” 


A SONG OF GLADNESS AND OF SORROW. 


I17 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A SONG OF GLADNESS AND OF SORROW. 

Gone like a meteor that o’erhead 
Suddenly shines, and ere we've said 
Look ! look I how^beautiful ! — ’tis fled. 

Moore. 

‘‘ My Own Aunt Rachel, — I go to you this happy 
hour to tell you of my joy, my perfect joy. Ma bonne 
mere, some one loves me — some one besides your own 
dear self. Shall I tell you who it is ? Lester Lockhart, 
of whom I wished to write you long since, but did not, 
because I loved him from the first,— and. Auntie dear, 
it was easier to bear all alone, — the sorrow, I mean, — for 
do you know, darling, that only last evening he told 
me of his love ! He has asked me to be his wife, and 
I have promised ! At your feet, my Mother in all but 
name, I lay the precious offering of his love, to be 
sanctioned by your approval, to be perfected by your 
blessing. 

‘‘You will wish to know something of the one who 
would be the life-guardian of your little Ruth ! Of 
her whom your love has thus far sheltered ! Does a 
woman ever critically analyze the character of the man 
she loves? This much I know. He has been asso- 
ciated with his father in the practice of law for two 
years past in New York City, whither they removed 


I 


ii8 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


from the western part of the State after the completion 
of Lester’s college course, and upon the retirement of 
his father from an active political life, to which he had 
devoted himself for more than twenty years. He has 
yet much political influence in the State — Mr. Von 
Arsdel says — and even in the retirement which he seeks, 
his opinions give direction to many important State 
affairs. Lester is said to possess the strong character- 
istics of his father. I know that he is noble, generous, 
manly, — yet it is not for these that I love him ! (l love 
hiadf — simMv becaus e I love.^Si^ A woman’s reason( 
you will say. There are no whys and wherefores in 
loving, I have heard you say ; and. Auntie, it is so true ! 
You know me too well to think that any accidental cir- 
cumstance could add to the homage my heart pays 
him whom nature has stamped with the seal of nobility. 
The strangest is yet to come. Lester had heard of you 
before we met ! Heard of you, he says, through a dear 
friend, who keeps your picture among his treasures. 
And I resemble you, he says ! How strange it seems ! 

I could believe that we were intended for each other 
from the beginning. 

I have had hours of sorrow since I left you, darling; 
hours of humiliation and tears. Perhaps they were a 
needed discipline. I do not know this, but I do know 
that never was the silvered lining of a heavy cloud more 
dazzling in its brilliancy than that which sheds its light 
upon my heart this happiest day of all my life. With 
a loving trust in your approval, I am now and always 
Your loving 


Ruth.” 


A SONG OF GLADNESS AND OF SORROW, up 

Here are the words she received in answer : 

“ My Child, — Put far away from you, now and for- 
ever, the dangerous love which fills your heart. As 
you value your own happiness, as you care for my peace, 
close your heart against the man who claims your love. 
No good can ever come to me or mine from one who 
bears that name. Much as I love you, Ruth, and 
necessary as you are for the happiness of the few re- 
maining years of my life, yet would I close your eyes 
in death, and see you sleep in peace beside your 
mother, rather than have you become the wife of that 
man. No, my darling ! It must not, it. shall not be, 
while my voice remains to lift- itself up against him. 
Do not ask the cause of this unwonted bitterness, it is 
deeply buried in my heart. 


‘ But in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away." 

‘‘Let it do to know that your Aunt Rachel has but 
one hope left in life — your happiness; that for years 
your love has been the only joy her life has known ; 
without that, she would ask the Father to call her 
home. 

“ Send him away forever, child, I ask in memory of 
your mother, and to save from breaking the heart of 
“Your 


“Aunt Rachel.” 


120 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HEART-ECHOES. 

Nature has some perfections to show that she is the image of God ; 
and some defects to show that she is only his image. 

Pascal. 

How true it is that “nine times out of ten it is 
over the bridge of sighs that we pass the narrow gulf 
from youth to manhood ! That interval is usually oc- 
cupied by an ill-placed or disappointed affection. We 
recover and find ourselves a new being. The intellect 
has become hardened by the fire through which it has 
passed. The mind profits by the wreck of every pas- 
sion, and we may measure our road to wisdom by the 
sorrows we have undergone.” 

The light seemed to have gone from Ruth’s young life. 
Darkness came upon her bewildered senses, confusion 
blinded her by a haze of conflicting thoughts. Stupor 
succeeded — it was the stupor of despair. Every power 
seemed suspended, every faculty paralyzed. Without 
seeking to grope her way out of the gloom, a light came 
of itself — the light of thought — bringing with it a spirit 
of resistance — defiance — rebellion ! “ Give him up ! 

Give up the love of Lester Lockhart ! Never ! Never ! 
He is more to me than all the world besides, and shall 
a whim, a^mere suspicion, come between us to blight 
with its poisonous breath the sweet flowers of love and 


HEART-ECHOES. 


I2I 


joy? The tones of Aunt Rachel’s voice, pleading 
through all time, could not induce me to give up Lester 
Lockhart ! He is mine, and I, His, now and forever !” 

If this passionate outburst was the instinctive vent of 
rebellious feeling, shall that fact forbid the story of her 
ravings ? Passion and pride enter largely into the com- 
position of that complex organization which we call 
‘‘human nature,” and though their story may not be 
“ideally beautiful,” yet from their intricate processes 
are evoked determinate life-results. “Out of evil- 
cometh good.” Walking in the dark valley of tears. 
One Eye watched the uncertain footsteps with a Father’s 
loving interest ; stooping from his throne. He placed 
his hand in hers, and guided her weak, tottering steps 
over the sharp edges of the rocky way, safe in the 
path that leads to Him. Out of that seeming evil came 
the good which brought her to his feet, humbled, sor- 
rowing, and in the end strengthened. The pitying 
Lamb of God, more compassionate than ever human 
hearts can be, looked upon and saved her from herself. 

She had not recovered from the shock, — far from it, — 
but after the first violence of grief had spent itself, a 
calm succeeded, — the calm when passion slept and rea- 
son ruled. Her better nature hushed into silence the 
fierce spirits of evil, and again Aunt Rachel seemed the 
true, good friend her life had always known. 

“Would she, without sufficient cause, inflict a cure- 
less wound upon the heart so dear to her?” No! it 
was clear that some dark mystery extended its length- 
ened shadow from the spring-time of Aunt Rachel’s, 
life into her own; and, though she might never know 
its nature, and could not explain to Lester, yet, with a 
•V II* 


122 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


resolution born of a courageous spirit, she determined 
to give him up, cost whatever it might of bitterness 
and tears. 

Lester had gone when Aunt Rachel’s letter came. 
A newly-found strength nerved her for the struggle 
with her own nature, and she closed her heart to the 
sight of his face ; in a brief, emphatic way, she wrote 
him that they must part — and forever. No reason save 
simply that it was her wish. He came no more, and 
wrote no word in reply. Weary days followed. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

‘‘DONA NOBIS PACEM.” 

(to thine own self be tru^ 

Shakspeare. 

“ There is something sustaining,” says George 
Eliot, “in the very agitation that accompanies the first 
shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain is often a stimu- 
lus, and produces an excitement which is transient 
strength. It is in the slow, changed life that follows 
— in the time when sorrow has become stale and has no 
longer an emotive intensity that counteracts its pain — 
in t'he time when day follows day in dull, unexpectant 
sameness, and trial is a dreary routine — it is then that 
despair threatens: it is then that the peremptory 


^^DONA NOBIS PACE Mr 


123 


hunger of the soul is felt, and eye and ear are strained 
after some unlearned secret of our existence, which 
shall giye to endurance the nature of satisfaction.” 

Ruth hungered for the peace which is as a heavenly 
visitation to those highly emotional natures whose very 
intensity helps to make the burden of their sorrows. 
A fierce, resisting spirit threatened to renew the conflict 
with the cruel power which had shaped this sorrow, 
and given it the first place among the elements that 
made her present life. An exquisite susceptibility to 
emotion of every kind and a natural joyousness were the 
forces that combined to resist whatever was harsh or 
unlovely, — to cast away whatever stifled her with an 
oppressive narrowness. Such conflicting forces do not 
war without leaving traces of their presence, and one 
could not look at Ruth that morning without a feeling 
of uneasiness. Subtle intuitions furnished insight, and 
insight, in its turn, conjured forebodings of what the 
girl’s own intense nature might do towards increasing 
the heaviness of those sorrows yet wrapped in the folds 
of the future. Sorrow has much to bear in this life 
for which she is not responsible : her weights and 
measures are more evenly adjusted than we mortals, in 
our blind judgments, are able to discern. That grief 
seems to come to different lives freighted with an unequal 
weight of woe is the effect of invisible causes in human 
nature. To-day, sorrow makes the same impress upon 
two hearts : to-morrow, a tide comes up in one and 
washes away the trace j the same tide bears away from 
the other the sand and soil that deface the lines, but 
the lines themselves are there, washed deeper by every 
wave that comes. Between these-two extremes come 


124 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


the innumerable and diverse characters that make the 
strata of human nature. 

Sorrow is the lever in that complex machine called 
life: it brings a power to bear upon the whole, to show 
the workings of the great machine ; whether they be 
graceful, smooth, and beautiful, depends much upon 
the make of the whole, the perfect adjustment of part 
to part, the harmony of symmetry, and all that- help 
towards completeness. 

There was a look upon Ruth’s face that day suggest- 
ing a thought of keen suffering; and yet another 
hushed expression indicating the certainty of intense 
susceptibility to exquisite enjoyment, should life favor 
its development. The habit of self-repression, which 
pride had fostered in the beginning, began to dwarf 
and shrink into insignificant dimensions under the 
training of a hand less vigorous. 

There is much that is ennobling in the fortitude 
which enables us to meet calamity, and much that is 
strengthening, too, in a certain way, but it is not the 
kind of strength that gives self-command and the 
power to meet questioning glances with an unanswering 
look, even when the crushing truth lies heaviest at the 
heart. 

As Ruth walked along the avenue of elms, it was 
with the hope that the sight of freshness and beauty 
would drive out that persistent sorrow whose ever-recur- 
ring memories were too oppressive. Ruth was but a 
girl, with an adequate share of imperfection. No 
heroic thoughts of self-renunciation had mingled 
themselves with the rose-colored tissues of her dreams. 
No lofty theories, whose practice would require the 


DONA NOBIS PACE Mr 


125 


stifling of small desires, had found their way into her 
young life. Nor shall we argue from this that the 
elements of heroism were wanting in her character : 
but she had a happy nature, and longed for its free 
.exercise. 

She was not seeking refuge in her hopes. Alas, poor 
child ! a time had come in life when there seemed 
nothing left to hope for, — she sought only a refuge 
from disappointment in that keen sense of pure enjoy- 
ment which the glad morning-time brings to those who 
love it. Youth especially loves the moriiing-time, per- 
haps because of that subtle, sympathetic chain which 
links like to like in nature. This strong force was not 
likely to triumph this time ; for Ruth’s eyes were full 
of tears, and it was in the saddest tone that she 
answered a voice among the trees near by, — it was 
Fred Von Arsdel’s. 

‘‘ Did I startle you?” he said, trying to cover up an 
anxious look with a smile. 

‘‘Yes, a little; but I am glad you are here ! I have 
been thinking of you, Mr. Von Arsdel, and wonder- 
ing ” An unsteady voice deserted her, and she 

walked on in silence, with head bent and eyes upon 
the ground, — she seemed listening to the rustling 
sound her footsteps made among the fallen leaves. 
^‘Pardon me!” she said, with an eflbrt to retain her 
voice, “if I do not speak coherently; I am afraid I 
cannot say just what I mean I I seem unable to com- 
mand my thoughts just now! But, Mr. Von Arsdel, 
at least, I have nothing to say in my own defense.” 

“ You need no defense, Ruth, where I am concerned. 
You must know as much.” 


126 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


“You will not say so when I have told you what I 
mean, — you must not say so now, — I do not deserve as 
much from you, and your words add to the bitterness 
of my regret for that hasty, implied promise, made in 
the impetuosity of a feeling that was my master, and that 
made me cruel ! I was not myself, — indeed, I was not 
myself !” 

The deepening expression upon his face gave her 
pain, and her eyes filled with tears. 

“I could wait no longer — I must tell you that ” 

“ Do not say it, Ruth !” 

There was a look upon his face that frightened her. 
He bowed his head upon his hands. For a moment 
both were silent. Then he said, looking away from her 
towards the trees that lined the avenue, — 

“ I cam bear it now ! Go on !” 

“ You know the worst ! I see it in your face !” 

“ I only dread it ! Speak! Tell me all !” 

“I can never be your wife, Mr. Von Arsdel. That 
wretched night I was not myself. Acting under a kind 
of delirium that took away my senses, my manner im- 
plied a promise whose fulfillment would destroy the 
happiness of both our lives. You understand ?” 

He bowei his head in answer, and she went on : 

“I did not love you I I see it all so plainly now! 
The wrong I did you, in holding out a hope that I could 
never realize, without bringing wretchedness to both 
our lives.” 

The self-accusing tones were full of sorrow. Fred 
looked towards her with an expression upon his face 
that spoke in his behalf to the gentlest feelings of her 
nature. She turned her face away, wondering if repa- 


DONA NOBIS PACE Mr 


127 


ration would ever be possible in this life : it did not 
seem so then. In an earnest, saddened tone she went 
on : 

‘‘I should have been honest and said as much that 
unhappy night !” 

‘‘You knew your own heart, then?” he said, speak- 
ing in a low tone, still without looking at her. 

“ I did not want to know, — there was a feeling that 
shamed me. I sought to hide it even from myself, — 
that -is how I sinned. I would not think of how it 
might all end, — I was acting wildly — recklessly, — under 
an influence of which you do not know — and I may 
not tell you, — one that made me deaf and blind and 
forgetful of every other consideration but my own sel- 
fish pride ! Oh, Mr. Von Arsdel ! if there were no 
such thing as pride, how much happier we should be !” 

“ Since by pride the angels fell,” he answered. “Say 
rather, if our natures possessed a stronger power, Ruth, 
how much happier we should be !” 

“ I know it! Your words imply a reproach that I 
w.ell deserve !” 

“I had no such thought ! I meant no reproach!” 

They had passed out of the avenue into a clump of 
evergreens near the garden gate. 

Seen by the brightening light, one face was deadly 
white ; the other flushed and white by turns — and tear- 
stained. 

“ I feel as if these days in my life would never end,” 
she said, speaking with sorrowing tenderness; “as if 
there were nothing left to hope for ! If I had spoken 
the truth that night, I might outlive the rest.” 

“ The rest, Ruth ! What do you mean ? I have had 


128 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


a thought, — it came back a moment since, — those last 
words of yours give it form and substance. Oh, Ruth !” 

She walked away a few steps, and both were silent. 
Then, in a steady tone, he spoke again, — 

“Will you tell me? May I know?” 

“What was the thought?” she asked, in a timid, 
trembling tone. 

“ It was — that — you — and — Les ” 

“ Do not say it, Fred! Do not say it I I cannot 
bear to hear that name ! I will tell you all some time 
— when I am stronger — if you will pity and forgive 
me; for, oh, God ! I am so wretched !” 

“ I shall never ask to know more than I have learned 
to-day 1 It is the truth ! God help me — and you !” 

" Alas ! long-suffering and most patient God, ‘ 

Thou need’st be surelier God to bear with us, 

Than even to have made us ! Thou, aspire, aspire 
From henceforth for me ! Thou who hast thyself 
Endured this fleshhood. Knowing how, as a soaked 
And sucking vesture, it would drag us down 
And choke us in the melancholy deep. 

Sustain me, that, with thee, I walk these waves 
Resisting ! — breathe me upward. Thou for me 
Aspiring, who art the way, the truth, the life, — 

That no truth henceforth seem indifferent, — 

No way to truth laborious, and no life, 

Not even this life I live, intolerable!” 


MARAH. 


129 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

MARAH ! 

What do I want ? Ah ! What ? 

Why I want that rose. 

Piatt. 

‘‘I AM going to New York next week, Ruth; I 
want you to go with me.” 

‘‘I cannot, Mrs. Von Arsdel; I must go home.” 

Home, Ruth ! That is sudden. We expect you 
to remain until spring.” 

‘‘I need Aunt Rachel, Mrs. Von Arsdel.” There 
was a quiver in her voice. And she needs me. Do 
not ask me to stay longer, Mrs. Von Arsdel, for indeed 
I cannot.” 

She needs Aunt Rachel ! Mrs. Von Arsdel’s thoughts 
echoed back the words that were fraught with a deeper 
meaning than any that lay upon the surface. 

You shall do as you like, child, — but you seem so 
changed of late, — you live too much in-doors ; perhaps 
a change of scene would help in bringing back the roses 
to your cheek. I cannot consent to see you go home 
to Aunt Rachel with that pale, wearied look. I need 
the trip too, but, indeed, I will not go without you.” 

You are an accomplished diplomatist, Mrs. Von 
Arsdel,” Ruth said, smiling. '‘You are skilled in the 
art of finesse, I will go, since you so much desire it ; 

12 


130 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


but, indeed, my longing to see Aunt Rachel is like a 
hunger that nothing else will satisfy.” 

“Go? Why, of course you’ll go, — of course, I say.” 
Mr. Von Arsdel spoke in his characteristic way. “ You 
are a little recluse, — I say, a little recluse, — that is why 
your cheeks are pale. Leonore is right, — your face is 
pale, — I say, very pale ; you need air and exercise, — 
air and exercise, — and plenty of them ; they are what 
you need. Don’t you know the laws of health. Miss 
De Harte ? — The laws of health, I say ? Never made 
their acquaintance, I suppose ; yes, I say, I suppose you 
don’t know there are such laws, — ignorant of their exist- 
ence, — like all other women, and half the men too, — 
yes, I say, half the men too, for that matter ! The 
utter disregard of the laws which govern health, — their 
utter disregard, I say, will bring ruin, — yes, I say, will 
bring' ruin to the men and women of this land. It is 
shameful, culpable, criminal,— yes, I say, and I repeat 
it, criminal! Even the schools and colleges of the 
country, — yes, the very institutions where everything is 
done to destroy health, — they are responsible to a great 
extent, — a very great extent, I say, for this criminal care- 
lessness. They care more — much more — for what they 
call the development and culture of God-given facul- 
ties than for the health, — the health, I say, of the body, 
— they do, indeed, — I know it. No wonder then, — no 
wonder, I say, — that we often see, very often see, — much 
too often, — in the honored graduates of our schools, 
the unmistakable symptoms of incipient disease, — yes, 
incipient disease, — in^stead of the healthful vigor, — the 
healthful vigor, I say, and elasticity of youth. Let’s 
have a reform at once, — a reform, I say, — one that is 


MARAH. 


much needed, — and reforms are the order of the day, — 
you begin it, Ruth, — turn teacher, little girl, — and begin 
the work, — yes, begin it, I say, by teaching the principles 
of health, among the earliest of school-room lessons, 
— the very first you know, — don’t forget.” 

There was a gleam of humor in his eye. Ruth had 
learned to like him in a way. Perhaps, she thought, 
looking at his face, flushed from the excitement of 
earnest talk, — perhaps some great occasion might call 
forth qualities in his nature of whose existence we do 
not dream. It is said that ‘‘All men are possible 
heroes.” Why not he? 

“ The importance of health,” he went on, — “ yes, its 
great importance, I say, for the successful discharge of 
life’s duties, — any of its duties, — yes, any one, I say, — 
even the least, — should be a daily lesson introduced at the 
beginning, — yes, the very first, I say, — repeated again 
and again, — dwelt upon, — until it becomes one of the 
elementary truths, — I say, one of the elementary truths, 
— yes, and the chief one, so thoroughly learned as never 
to be forgotten, never, I say, — nor undervalued. When 
the fact is recognized universally — yes, universally, I 
say — that a violation of the laws of health — the laws of 
health, I say — must bring evil results to the offender, 
— yes, evil results, I say, — our girls will stop to think 
before they consent to stay for the three-o’clock quad- 
rille, — they will, I say, — and our young men will brace 
themselves with air and exercise — yes, air and exercise 
— before counting-room hours. By the way, Ruth, — 
pardon me, — but you know I like to call you Ruth, — by 
the way, ‘ quadrille’ reminds me that you are expected 
at Snowden’s to-morrow evening. Are you going? I 


132 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


don’t know, indeed, I don’t know, whether after all I 
have said — all I have said — whether or not it will be 
consistent to say go ! On the whole, — I can’t say, — but 
what will you wear? muslin, and be comfortable in it? 
Say, is that it ? You know, young ladies never wear — 
no never, I say — a dress thicker than muslin, — even in 
mid-winter; — but they’re always very warm, — ‘very 
warm and comfortable, thank you!’ Muslin is so warm 
— so very warm and comfortable that I wonder — yes, 
I very often wonder why the men don’t have muslin 
overcoats. Think I’ll try it, — yes, think I’ll introduce 
the style. What does it cost, eh, Ruth? Think it’ll 
take? Will you wear muslin to Snowden’s, — will you? 
And stay till three o’clock? Or will you stay at home?” 

“I will go, Mr. Von Arsdel.” 

“With Fred, of course.” 

“No; I shall have other company.” 

“Fred will go; will he not, Leonore?”^ 

“I think not.” 

“What is the matter with the boy, — what is the 
matter, I say ? Did he and Lester quarrel, Leonore ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, no ! They are still friends.” 

“That reminds me of something — yes, of something 
I heard to-day. Miss Snowden and Lockhart, they 
say, will marry soon, — in the spring, I believe. Ah, 
Ruth ! ‘ the wheels of life stand still. ’ It seems strange 
to me — ^yes, very strange, I say — that Lester should 
care for that woman. I cannot understand — I say, I 
cannot understand it at all.” 

“ Come with me, Ruth.” In pity for the desolate, 
wretched girl, Mrs. Von Arsdel spoke in tender tones. 

“ That was an unceremonious leave-taking, — I de- 


BITTER WATERS SWEETENED. 


133 


dare it was,” Mr. Von Arsdel said aloud, when they 
were gone. ‘‘I should like to know what is the 
matter — what is the matter, I say, with everybody in 
this house? Fred mopes, and Ruth is pale, and 
Leonore is cross, — cross to me, I say, and gentle — 
yes, positively gentle to everybody else. I believe she 
almost loves that girl. It’s neither new nor strange 
for her to be cross with me, — neither new nor strange, 
I say, but the other is very strange. I wonder — yes, 
I wonder — what’s the matter with the people in 
this house? If I w’ere a woman, I should say, I don’t 
like such Moings’ ; that’s what I should say; because 
‘ doings’ is a woman’s word ; but as I am not a woman, 
I will say instead, I don’t like such dmin nonsense^ 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

BITTER WATERS SWEETENED. 

* Ah me ! 

The world is full of meetings such as this. 

Willis. 

The Snowden House wore its best look that night. 
From every room below were heard the sounds of 
laughter and merry chat and all the confused noises 
which announce, unmistakably, that joy and gladness 
are in assembly with the avowed intention of throwing 
'‘dull care” away. A few of the more mature filled 
12* 


134 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


seats in the library, chosen with a view of commanding 
a look into the drawing-room, where the dancing was i 
to be. The young and those who would be young 
stood about iii groups, eager for the dance, and await- 
ing the inspiration of the music. 

Ruth was at the piano ; she had been asked to sing.. 

To those of us who know her well there is a look upon 
the face that makes us anxious ; the tones of her voice 
are its accompaniment : 

“ I stood on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o’er the city. 

Behind the dark church-tower. 

" I saw her bright reflection. 

In the waters under me. 

Like a golden goblet falling , 

And sinking into the sea. 

Among the long, black rafters 
The wavering shadows lay. 

And the current that came from the ocean 
Seemed to lift and bear them away. 

'• And like those waters rushing 
Among the wooden piers, 

A flood of thoughts came o’er me 
That filled my eyes with tears. 

“ How often, oh, how often. 

In the days that had gone by, 

I had stood on that bridge at midnight 
And gazed on that wave and sky ! 

“ How often, oh, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O’er the ocean wild and wide ! ' 


135 


BITTER WATERS SWEETENED. 

“For my heart was hot and restless, 

And my life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater that I could bear.” 

The consciousness of a presence in the door-way 
caused Ruth to look up, and she saw standing there — 
Lester Lockhart. She rose and turned away to cross 
the room, with a sickening sense of dread and bewilder- 
ment. Lester had changed his position, and was stand- 
ing near the centre of the room, talking with Mrs. 
Middleton. 

‘‘Come here, my dear,” the latter said to Ruth. 
She obeyed passively. “Your voice is beautiful; 
allow me to congratulate you, and at the same time to 
present my friend, Mr. Lester Lockhart, whom you 
seem not to know.” She spoke laughingly. 

“I have had that honor,” he replied, bowing coldly. 

Ruth left them, crossed the room, hardly seeing 
where she went, — nor caring, save to escape the pres- 
ence that kept her senses in a whirl. The next tones 
she heard were not fraught with tranquillizing influ- 
ences. 

Poor Ruth ! she was terribly out of tune to-night, 
and fate kept up the discord. The key that attuned 
her life to perfect harmony was missing, — the sweetness 
was all gone. Discord jarred upon and irritated her 
music-loving nature. Mayne Snowden’s voice did not 
tend to soothe the irritation. 

“ I have not even had the opportunity of looking at 
you lately, dear ! How pale you are ! Been staying 
at home too closely, little nun ! I shall have to scold 
you ! Fred, too, has grown fond of in-door sports ! 


136 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


Forcible illustration of the laws of attraction ! He is 
not out to-night ! Perhaps he can afford to be gen- 
erous, and surrender his place just now /’ ’ The last 
words bore an emphasis that added to Ruth’s dis- 
comfort. 

‘‘Why nowf' she asked, with Mayne Snowden’s in- 
tonation, while a streak of vivid color flashed into her 
face. 

“ Why now, indeed ! You little dissembler ! Think 
I don’t know the goings-on at Gloaming Grange? 
Allow me to congratulate you and — Fred!” 

“There is no need for special congratulation. Miss 
Snowden !” Ruth’s effort to repress every sign of vex- 
ation was not as successful as she wished it might have 
been, and the consciousness that she lacked perfect 
self-command at this trying time made her angry with 
herself. She was getting more and more out of tune. 
The discord would soon be maddening. 

“Oh, of course I do not expect to hear the truth 
from you, Ruth dear, and, for the sake of the cause, I 
forgive the ‘fib.’ We must have a real earnest talk 
soon ; come over again, and stay all night. Lester is 
here, you see : came up from New York, to be here this 
evening, and will remain a few days. I’ll send him 
for you, if you’ll promise to treat him kindly. You 
know you always quarrel. There’s the music at last, 
playing an accompaniment to Mr. Walton’s ‘May I 
have the pleasure. Miss De Harte !’ He’s coming this 
way.” And she glided off, leaving Ruth in a quiver- 
ing state of nervous excitement. 

There is a passionate grief that finds its best relief in 
tears; denied this natural expression by the force of 


BITTER WATERS SWEETENED. 


137 


outward circumstance, or by the harsh exactments of 
pride, the law which imposes silence and repression 
lends a stimulus to the effort, by way of compensation ; 
the very intensity of emotion acts as a force to compel 
subjugation to the will. ‘‘If I may not be sad, I will 
seem glad, ’ ’ the heart seems to say to itself. Thus, what 
would be the abandonment of grief under favoring cir- 
cumstances, reaches another extreme under the arbitrary 
exactments of will, and becomes — not joy, surely, — 
but a wild, maddening intoxication, that drowns con- 
sciousness of sorrow, and sweeps the senses into a vor- 
tex of intensity. 

All the sights and sounds that helped Ruth to forget 
the weight that lay against her heart were most wel- 
come. The presence, of Lester Lockhart filled her be- 
ing with a wild joy, — sweeter because forbidden. She 
had not sought him, — it was the last time they would 
ever meet, — why not riot in an excess of happiness be- 
fore the coming of that penitential time that lay before 
her? When the music came, — and the dance, — and 
the sweet consciousness that she was in his thoughts, 
— the sense of gladness came upon her, stirring into 
response all her capabilities of joy. Their eyes met, 
— their hands touched in the dance, — Ruth forgot all 
else. 

In the confusion of sounds which followed the dance, 
when the music was resting and the dancers were seek- 
ing relief from the close, hot air, Ruth escaped from 
the drawing-room, to seek solitude — silence — and the 
freedom of undisturbed thought. She found them. 
The window of the little sitting-room was open ; a bal- 
cony lay just outside. 


LIFE’S PROMISE TO PAY. 


138 


“ Her heart was hot and restless, 

Her life was full of care, 

And the burden laid upon her 
Seemed greater than she could bear.” 


The cool night-air would fan out the flame upon her 
cheek. The night was radiantly beautiful: perfect 
moonlight silvered the house and trees ; repose and 
beauty in the world without, tumult and passion in that 
small, close world within. 

Voices from the sitting-room reached the balcony 
where Ruth had found a retreat. 

‘‘Well, Rosa, what do you think of Mrs. Von Ars- 
del’s visitor? Isn’t she brilliant to-night? One would 
think she studied harmony, judging from the effective- 
ness of her toilette: gold and black make a perfect 
combination for her style; those wheat-sheaves for 
trimmings, with just a touch of scarlet intermingled, are 
quite effective, — don’t you think so, Mr. Lockhart?” 

“ I never notice details in ladies’ dress. Miss Ham- 
ilton !” 

“Gentlemen never do,” she answered; “which goes 
to prove that ladies dress for each other’s sakes.” 

“It is fair to presume, then,” he answered, in a tone 
that made Ruth think she saw the smile accompanying 
it, “ that, if no gentlemen w^re here this evening, all 
these elaborate toilettes would have been displayed for 
the purpose of exciting envy rather than admiration?” 

“Oh, Mr. Lockhart,” a simpering voice pleaded, 
“how can you? Envy does not belong to our cate- 
gory !” 

“You are exactly right in one respect, Mr. Lock- 
hart,” came in broad, assertive tones from another. 


BITTER WATERS SWEETENED. 


139 


“ and exactly wrong. If no gentlemen had been here 
to-night there would have been no ladies ; every one, 
myself included, would have regretted that ‘unavoid- 
able circumstances,’ etc. I said myself included, rec- 
ognizing the fact that an honest confession is whole- 
some as it is rare; women and women’s talk have no 
charm for me. But could all these lilies and roses have 
been gathered into one bouquet by any other power 
than the one that did it, — the promise that gentlemen 
would be here to admire and flatter, — every woman but 
one would have gone home sick at heart, because 
somebody’s dress was prettier, or some other face 
fairer. As it is, Mr. Lockhart, wounded vanity is 
soothed by the meaningless platitudes that are plentiful 
because they cost nothing. Half the girls here to- 
night, even under these comforting conditions, are 
dying of envy because one other girl is prettier.” 

“ You are complimentary,” the first voice answered ; 
“pray, whom do you mean?” 

“ You know very well ; I mean that pretty little Miss 
De Harte.” 

“Really ! And you think her pretty !” 

“ I think her beautiful, and so do you ! Her com- 
plexion is perfect !” 

“The very best the market aflbrds, I have no 
doubt!” 

“That complexion is not a marketable commodity, 
else it wouldn’t be so rare !” 

Ruth heard it' all ; but heavier griefs pressed too 
hard and close against her heart to leave room for such 
as this. The inevitable reaction that follows strong 
excitement had come while she listened to his voice : 


140 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


a low, stifled sob moaned itself out into the silence of 
the night. 

‘‘No tears dim the sweet look that nature wears,” a 
voice beside her said, in the old, familiar tone. 

By one of the o’ermastering efforts which sometimes 
enable us to give an agreeable surprise to self, Ruth 
answered, though with an unsteady voice, — 


“ ‘ O Nature, how fair is thy face, 

And how light is thy heart, 

And how friendless thy grace ! 

To man’s joys thou inclinest, 

But his sorrows, thou knowest them not nor divinest.’ ” 

“Then she is not the kind mother whose tones you 
found so gentle that day in the garden at Gloaming 
Grange. You have realized her deception sooner than 
I thought.” 

“I was a girl then, full of enthusiastic ardor and 
romantic imaginings. I am- a woman now.” 

' “A few months have wrought a wondrous change. 
You attained your growth with marvellous rapidity.” 

“The transition state only requires favoring circum- 
stances for its perfect development.” 

“ Are falsehood and deceit the favoring circum- 
stances? Do they make the roseate, sunlit valley 
through which you passed ?’ ’ 

Ruth was silent. 

“Am I right. Miss De Harte?” 

“No, you are not right.” 

“Well?” 

“It was over the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ I passed.” 

“You should have left your fancies on the other 


BITTER WATERS SWEETENED. 


141 

side, — the unreal world you left behind. They will 
meet with no sympathy amid stern realities, — they will 
be jostled, rubbed against, and crushed.” 

** My fancies? I do not understand.” 

‘‘The description of your very precarious means of 
transit from youth to womanhood is a stroke of fancy, 
which suggests the thought that you borrow ideal sor- 
rows. ’ ’ 

“ Ideal sorrows ?” 

“ Yes, ideal sorrows.” 

“And you say those words to me?” 

“Is there any reason why I should nof ?” 

“If you only knew how I have suffered, — if you only 
knew.” She was undergoing a trial that made itself 
visible in the shiver that ran through her whole frame. 

■ “ Come, Ruth,” he said, gently, taking her hand 
and placing it within his arm. “ I have been selfish to 
forget that this cold night air does not suit tropical 
flowers. Come, you are already chilled.” 

“I cannot bear the sight of people’s faces, Lester.” 

“They are all gone to the drawing-room; look in- 
side: there is no one near.” 

“ If I only knew !” he repeated, in passionate tones, 
when he had found her a warm place inside the room. 
“Is it right that I should blame you, Ruth?” 

“Lester, will it comfort you to know that I — am — 
very — wretched?” 

“ Comfort me ? No, Ruth ; it but adds to my misery. 
What has caused it ? I must know — I have a right to 
know, — I will never leave your side this evening till 
you have told me what it is that separates us. It can 
be nothing that I should not know, — it must be harsh 

13 


142 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


and unnatural, — and shall I associate such thoughts with 
you, my Ruth? It is not caprice — a mere whim, — 
your earnest eyes tell me the same story still. Ruth, 
my darling, if you love me, do not hesitate longer, — 
tell me what it is that has raised this unnatural barrier 
between us. What is it, dearest?” He held both her 
hands in his. 

‘‘Aunt Rachel,” she whispered, looking into the 
fire. 

“In Heaven’s name, for what?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ And that is all?” 

“All, Lester? That is everything in the world to 
me. ’ ’ 

“ Is our love nothing, Ruth?” 

She could not trust herself to speak the answer her 
heart dictated ; there was a visible quiver of the lips, 
and her eyes filled with tears. 

“And you are willing to put our love away for a 
senseless whim ? What right has she to control your 
life?” 

“A mother’s right, Lester.” 

“A mother would make no such claim upon her child. 
You are unreasonable, Ruth,— you have false ideas of 
duty, — devotion to principle is far removed from blind 
obedience to unreasonable demands. She has no claim 
that justifies such extortion, — you have no reason for 
submission to such tyranny.” 

“You must not say those words of Aunt Rachel. 
It gives me pain to hear you, Lester.” 

“I will do nothing to give you pain, darling, but I 
am angry at the thought of what she has done. But 


BITTER WATERS SWEETENED. 


143 


you need not bear it — and you will not, — we must be 
happy, Ruth, — life is not worth its trouble without some 
happiness to compensate for its trials.” 

^‘It is worth less without devotion to duty, Lester.” 

‘‘Do you call this devotion to duty? — thrusting out 
of your life and mine the greatest need of both ? Such 
a sacrifice is wicked — it is horrible, — and nothing but 
misery can come of it, — that is, if you persist in this 
unnatural, unwomanly resolve. But you will not, Ruth, 
— you must not ! Look up and say you will not !” 

“Go away, Lester, — you tempt me,” she said, in 
pleading tones, closing her eyes against the sight of 
him and pressing her face against the back of her chair. 

“I want to tempt you, — I want you to break this 
cruel bond, — to be yourself. Poor, little fluttering bird, 
you are not yourself!” He laid his hand upon her 
brown hair. 

“I cannot be myself while you are near ; go away, 
Lester, and leave me one moment to myself, won’t 
you?” She turned her head and looked up into his 
face. 

“ I shall never leave you until you have told me 
what I long to hear. You are blind to your own hap- 
piness, Ruth, deaf to a voice that is calling you, — have 
you no care for mine? You do not love me, Ruth, as 
I love you.” 

“ Hush, Lester, and pity me 1” 

“Ido pity your infatuation, — your blind compliance 
to a tyranny that is cruel and unjust ; do not look at me 
reproachfully, — that is the only word that answers. 
How can one be sure of peace and happiness ” 

“I do not expect them.” 


44 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


“Because you thrust them from you, Ruth, believe 
me, you do ; how do we know but that our destinies 
are in our hands at this moment, — to be decided by 
ourselves for sweet, delicious, intense happiness, or life- 
time gloom and misery? The road once taken, there 
is no turning back, — no time to seek another. Choose 
quickly — Ruth, they are coming— speak, — ^Aunt Rachel 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

BENEDICITE. 

Tho’ the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, JL could trust 
Your kindnes s. 

' ' Tennyson. 

How true it is that “the great problem of the shift- 
ing relation between passion and duty is clear to no 
man who is capable of apprehending it. The question 
whether the moment has come in which a man has 
fallen below the possibility of a renunciation that will 
carry any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a pas- 
sion against which he had struggled as a trespass, is one 
for which we have no master-key that will fit all cases. 
The casuists have become a by-word of reproach ; but 


BENEDICITE. 


145 


their perverted spirit of minute discrimination was the 
shadow of a truth to which eyes and hearts are too 
often fatally sealed, — the truth that moral judgments 
must remain false and hollow unless they are checked 
and enlightened by the perpetual reference to the special 
circumstances that mark the individual lot. All people 
of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repugnance 
to the men of maxims, because such people early dis- 
cern that the mysterious complexity of our life is not 
to be embraced by maxims ; and that to lace ourselves 
up in formulas of that sort is to repress all the divine 
promptings and inspirations that spring from growing 
insight and sympathy. And the man of maxims is the 
popular representative of the minds that are guided in 
their moral judgment solely by general rules, thinking 
that these will lead them to justice by a ready-made 
patent method without the trouble of exerting patience, 
discrimination, impartiality, — without any care to as- 
sure themselves whether they have the insight that 
comes from a hardly-earned estimate of temptation, or 
from a life vivid and intense enough to have created a 
wide fellow-feeling with all that is human. ’ ’ The kindly 
human soul who, before awarding a judgment, stops to 
put herself in Ruth’s place, may not pronounce harshly 
against her, because there is enough in every heart 
that is common to our natures to lead with unerring 
fidelity to the same result under the same determining 
circumstances. Whatever may be the complexity of 
self, no intricacies of organization can hide from the 
mental vision that prominent, clearly-defined element 
which we call ‘Monging for happiness;” and not only 
is its place chief among the motive-powers that help to 

13* 


146 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


shape our lives, but the influence it brings to bear in 
the formation of our judgments weighs heavily on the 
side in which its sympathies are enlisted. 

This strong element had been supreme that night, 
shutting out and placing beyond the pale of its empire 
every opposing sense that might weaken or dispute its 
power. But when the door was closed and Ruth found 
herself alone with her own thoughts, a keen sensation 
of unrest mixed itself with the emotions that made 
visions for the night and kept sleep away. The dark 
eyes, full of earnest, passionate pleading, did not ban- 
ish Aunt Rachel’s face, nor his strong tones hush the 
sound of her voice. Yet Ruth was supremely happy; 
and, if she strove to drive away any thought whose 
presence cast a shadow, self-love was there to hint a 
justification of the act. “ Aunt Rachel might be wrong, 
— she musf be wrong. I will write and tell her all.” 
And she did in her own way. 

‘‘Forgive me, dear Aunt Rachel,” she wrote, “if 
what I say should seem defiant or rebellious. I do not 
love you less because I walk without your guidance and 
act contrary to your counsel. Shall you love me less 
because I seek to be true to myself? I did send him 
away. Aunt Rachel, as you know. I thought it was to 
be forever. I said not one word to justify myself. It 
was my wish, I wrote, that we should never meet again. 
I will not tell you of the weary days and nights that 
followed, — of the bitter pain and heart-ache, of all that 
helped to make me wretched. I prayed for help, for 
strength; it came. And there were times when the 
consciousness of an Infinite love was my only comfort. 
But — in an evil hour I had almost said, — it was not. 


BENEDICITE, 


147 


Aunt Rachel; it was the happiest hour, the one most 
filled with joy in all my life — I met him again. His 
pleadings overcame yours. My own heart helped his 
cause, and a second time I am pledged to become his 
wife. Aunt Rachel, your own words come back to me 
now with a fuller meaning, a deeper significance, than 
they have ever borne. Don’t you remember the day 
you said to me, ‘ When she does bless a husband with 
her love, it is because he is the one she needs to fill up 
the measure of her happiness’ ? That one has come. 
Do not ask me to break my word with him ; much as I 
love you, much as I owe you, in this life, — dear as you 
are to me, — I cannot, cannot / The meeting was not of 
my seeking. In the wretchedness that I endured, no 
thought or hope of ever being to him what I had been 
came between me and my sense of duty towards you. 
It came about without any act of mine. I cannot re- 
sist. • My own heart pleads his cause. Pity and forgive 
me, ma bonne mere, because, indeed, I love you with 
all the old-time fondness of 

‘'Your 


“ Little Ruth.” 


148 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

NIAGARA. 

“ Come, expressive silence, muse his praise. ” 


“Who was at the Snowdens’ last evening, Ruth?” 
Mrs. Von Arsdel asked. 

“ Everybody.” 

“ Lester was not there ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ When did he come up?” 

“ Yesterday.” 

“ He is not happy, Ruth?” • 

“Why, Mrs. Von Arsdel?” 

“ I think so, Ruth.” 

“ I think he is very happy.” 

“ Since when ?” 

“Since last evening.” 

Ruth’s face was a revelation to Mrs. Von Arsdel. 

“I understand,” she said, with a little gleam of 
pleasure stealing into her eye. “And I am glad -for 
you both. What misery there might have been !” 

“What misery there was, Mrs. Von Arsdel ! May I 
be spared the like ever again in this life !” 

“ Amen, child ! Amen!” 

“ There is Lester coming. Look at his face. See if 
he is not happy.” 


NIAGAR^A. 


149 

There is no need for that, Ruth. He would not 
be here else.” 

“We were just talking about you, Mr. Lockhart,” 
Ruth said, with a little assumption of gravity that ill 
became her present mood. 

“You were saying? Tell me. I am waiting.” 

“ Waiting for what ?” 

“ To hear what it was you said of me.” 

“You have not asked to know. You merely asserted 
a proposition. That is one of your ways.” 

“ Then I shall alter its form, and say instead. May it 
please your most gracious highness to gladden the heart 
of a loyal subject by the information he desires. Will 
that do, little tyrant ?” 

“It suits me^' Ruth answered, the bright look upon 
her face intensifying into radiance beneath these happy 
influences. 

“ We spoke of happiness, Lester, — Ruth and I, — 
and we mentioned you by way of illustration.” 

“Then I was only one of the incidentals,” he an- 
swered, smiling. 

“Oh, that was all! Did you expect to play chief 
part? What vanity !” Ruth said. 

“Vanity is woman’s exclusive property, and I have 
no desire to intrude upon forbidden ground.” 

“ I think it is common property, Mr. Lockhart. For 
my own part I am willing to concede you the lion’s 
share.” 

“Thank you. She is generous. Don’t you think 
so, Mrs. Von Arsdel?” 

“ She is in truth so generous that she has promised to 
go to New York with me for my pleasure alone'' 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY, 


150 

*^When shall you leave?” 

In two days.” 

May I be of the party?” 

Certainly,” Mrs. Von Arsdel answered. But for 
Ruth’s enjoyment, we shall stop a few days at Niagara. 
Does that suit you ?’ ’ 

‘‘Perfectly: I have no plans at present.” 

The mad Niagara rapids ! Other waters dance and 
play in the sunshine, leap from rock to rock, and play 
at hide-and-seek in the maddest, wildest frolic. These 
waters rush on their rocky way in impetuous haste, and 
with a roar that never ends. Instinct with life and 
human passion seem the seething, surging waters, wave 
in conflict with wave, raging, roaring, maddening in 
their strife. Every fleecy, foam-capped wave reflects 
the beauty of the sunbeam that casts upon its bosom 
a golden and opal-tinted tissue. A sea of liquid gems 
of every hue, resplendent as if with the glories of ten 
thousand suns, glimmers, dances, frolics, and gathers 
new beauties for the final leap, in which it seems to 
hurl away its life upon the rocks, and to breathe its 
last, feeble, fluttering breath upon the bosom of the 
quiet river below. From its watery grave the pearly 
mist rises in circling wreaths, and ascends towards the 
skies like a disembodied spirit; divested of its gross- 
ness, it arises an airy, impalpable essence — a sweet, 
ethereal exhalation, floating towards the sky, seem- 
ing to verify the promise of peace, symbolized by the 
iridescent arch which crowns the whole. How like 
the restless throbbings and unquiet yearnings of the 
human heart ! How like the wild conflict of its raging. 


NIAGARA. 


151 

passions in the race for power, — ever hurrying, press- 
ing, rushing, plunging, till the goal is reached, when 
life is ending, and the unquiet stream leaves its last 
billow upon the shore of life ! 

*‘Of what are you thinking, Ruth?” 

“Of nothing, Lester. That mighty roar silences 
thought. In presence of Niagara every faculty seems 
suspended, every feeling paralyzed, but that of won- 
der at the power of Him who directs that thundering 
cataract, draws towards Himself its pearly mist, and 
encircles all with the resplendent bow of ‘ Heaven’s 
own jasper’ and roseate hues. For ever and ever will 
that mighty current thunder on its course, till the 
power that made it says, ‘ Peace, be still !’ ” 

“ It is a hymn to Nature, Ruth.” 

“ It is a hymn to Nature’s God, Lester.” 


152 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER XL. 

LADY DEBLOCK. 


Is it not monstrous, that this player here, 

But in a fiction, in a dream of passion. 

Could force his soul so to his own conceit, . 

That from her working, all his visage wanned ; 

Tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect ; 

A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing? 

For Hecuba ! ‘ 

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 

That he should weep for her ? And all for nothing ? 

Shakspeare. 

THEvtheatre was full, — crowded from pit to dome, — 
for this woman’s fame reached far and wide, and ex- 
pectant curiosity longed to gratify itself with the 
knowledge of what she might do in this, the most 
finished and artistic of her conceptions. There they 
were, — the eager lookers-on, the curious, the expect- 
ant, the lovers of art, the critics, the gay, the pleasure- 
seekers, — all literally crammed away, amid the jewels 
which reflected back the glare and glitter of lights 
flashing out from pit to dome, — amid the flowers that 
mingled their fragrance with the fumes of heated air, 
— amid the confused murmur of voices, the exquisite 
strains of music, with wondrous modulations rising — 
swelling — sinking — ceasing. 

And there is Lady Dedlock, — there, ‘‘ locked in 


X 


LABV DEBLOCK, 


153 


Struggle, rigid in resistance.” Haughty as an empress, 
pale, proud, cold, — deaf to that inner voice that 
showed a way to make all things clear, — inflexibly re- 
sistant to that strong power which holds her secret in its 
grasp. There is a sudden hush of sound ; an intense 
eagerness to study every line of that face, to catch 
every sound of that wondrous voice, to watch, with 
bated breath, the struggle between love and pride, — 
the mother’s yearnings, — the wife’s dishonor. No 
tone is lost, no look unheeded, till the reaction comes, 
when she is gone, followed by deafening shouts. The 
tremendous ‘Het-down” of every quivering nerve, 
strained to its utmost tension ; the rest for eyes, pained 
from an overstrained vision. How Ruth*s heart ached 
for the proud woman, walking her lonely way through 
life without one that fathomed the depths of her nature ! 
— no voice to soothe, — to guide, — to comfort. Like 
the Vashti, ^^she does not resent her grief. No; the 
weakness of that word would make it a lie. To her, 
what hurts becomes immediately embodied; looks on 
it as a thing that can be attacked, worried down, torn 
in shreds. She rends her woes, — shivers them in con- 
vulsed abhorrence. -Pain for her has no result in good ; 
tears water no harvest of wisdom ; on sickness, on death 
itself, she looks with the eye of a rebel.” Fallen, in- 
surgent, banished,” an exile from home and love, the 
truest phase of the woman’s nature reveals itself in the 
despairing face pressed against the cold wall of iron 
between her and a buried love. 

Poor Joe, sweeping the wretched stone steps of the 
miserable grave-yard, and saying, he ‘‘ were werry good 
to me, he were,” is one of the scenes where the noblest 
14 


^54 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY, 


of God-given attributes light up the rude and unat- 
tractive lineaments of Nature’s neglected children, 
until their homeliness is covered by a glory which is 
sublime. 

The wondrous power of Dickens, — and the scarcely 
less marvellous power of the woman who gives to his 
creations a breathing, human form. One is genius, — 
the other, its interpreter. The strong magnetism of 
genius” drew Ruth’s heart ^‘out of its wonted orbit; 
she had never seen the like before, — never anything 
which astonished Hope and hushed Desire, which out- 
stripped impulse and paled conception, which, instead 
of merely irritating imagination with the thought of 
what might be done, at the same time fevering the 
n erves because it was not done, disclosed power like a 
deep, swollen, winter river, thundering in cataract, 
and bearing the soul, like a leaf, on the steep and steely 
sweep of its descent.” 

At last she turned to look at Mrs. Von Arsdel, to 
find out what she thought. Another Lady Dedlock 
sat beside her, with face stony, cold, rigid as the one 
upon the stage. Can it be that she too bears toward 
the grave a silent, cankering sorrow ? Much that we 
see in life adds force to the truth of the woman’s words 
who wrote, “ But it is with man as with trees : if you 
lop olf their finest branches, into which they were 
pouring their young life-juice, the wounds will be 
healed over with some rough boss, some odd excres- 
cence, and what might have been a grand tree, expand- 
ing into liberal shade, is but a whimsical, misshapen 
trunk. Many an irritating fault, many an unlovely oddity 
has come of a hard sorrow, which has crushed and 


SJVOPV. 


155 


maimed the nature just when it was expanding into 
plenteous beauty ; and the trivial, erring life which we 
visit with our harsh blame, may be but as the unsteady 
motion of a man whose best limb is withered.” 

At last the house emptied its huge contents into the 
street below. It was snowing fast. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

SNOW. 

Hear the sledges, with the bells, 

Silver bells ! 

Poe. 

Snow : on earth — in air : whirling — flying — skim- 
ming. Snow : on the house-tops— in the street — in the 
gutter : dancing — eddying — falling — blinding. Snow : 
on trees — on leaf — on shrub: hurrying — rushing — tum- 
bling: snow, blown into fantastic shapes by spinning 
gusts. Snow above; — in air — ^below. The world’s 
great, rough places are under a fleecy cover : its sharp 
edges dulled — its stains washed out — its rugged outlines 
softened by the piling drifts that are not too pure to 
mix with mud, and filth, and slime. Every discerni- 
ble object wears a fleecy mantle; every tree and house- 
top is bordered with a soft, feathery fringe. Nature, 
in a fitful mood, courts fleeciness : snow reigns supreme. 
The world is in love with snow. 

At length the clouds are empty : there is no snow 


156 LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 

left. The last drifting flake has found an earthly home. 
The world below lies clear, crisp, sparkling, in the sun- 
shine ; for days it wears a garb of immaculate whiteness. 
The soft, piling drifts settle down into solidity. Con- 
tact with earth has robbed the pure flake of its downy 
softness; more, it has merged its independent indi- 
viduality into the countless atoms that make a snow- 
bound world. 

Sunlight intensifies the whiteness, dazzling with its 
radiant splendor. Moonlight is tenderly benignant, 
softening — beautifying — mellowing — lending to earth’s 
white face a golden glory. 

‘‘ Here is a polar bear conie to take a tropical bloom 
into the Arctic regions,” Lester said, entering the room 
where Ruth sat. “Get your warmest wrappings; the 
frost king is out to-night, chilling, and nipping, and 
biting. Our sleigh is waiting : the horses are impa- 
tient. The very air is an effervescence of glee ; listen 
to the sleigh-bells ! ‘ How they ring out their de- 

light !’ ” Soon after, Ruth was snugly hid away in the 
soft, dark robes, folded about her little figure by a 
strong, tender hand. (She was happy iu that sweet 
sense of dependence upon a stronger presence which 
comes to every woman’s heart with the confident feel- 
ing of security in his protection ; the light from brilliant 
lamps flashed into a face whose warm tints were height- 
ened and intensified by this happy, all-pervading con- 
sciousness^ 

They are off: spinning along to the jingle of merry 
bells; a new exhilaration comes with every frosty 
breath ; new life is in her warm blood ; new sensations 
are tingling to her fingers’ ends ; the red current that 


MISERERE. 


157 


dyes her cheeks is deepening into vivid bloom beneath 
this sharp, bracing air ; keen, throbbing sensibilities 
are vibrating, responsive to this powerful influence ; she 
is filled with an abounding sense of life — and health — 
and joy. Silver sounds fill the frosty air ; tinkling tones 
make the music for the whirling, giddy, joyous throng. 
A gay, laughing, life-loving world is abroad to-night, 
rioting in an excess of boisterous glee ; by its own light 
the great city sees its joy. Spirited horses wrought 
upon by ardent influences must be held in check. Men 
and animals are mad. 

‘^Well, Ruth, of what are you thinking?” 

They had stopped before the door. 

‘‘ I am thinking, Lester, that life is such a joy !” 

‘‘ May it always be, my darling !” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

MISERERE. 

The sorrow of many the many may bear, 

Mine is too heavy for me. 

S. M. B. Piatt. 

Here is a letter, Ruth ! Mr. Dunwiddie brought 
it this evening, after you had gone.” 

‘‘From Aunt Rachel !” she answered, a foreboding 
pang sweeping a blanched look into her face. 

In the solitude and silence of her own room she read 
these words : 

14^ 


158 LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 

“ My Own Ruth, — Many years ago, a girl of eigh- 
teen summers, with a heart fresh, warm, tender as your 
own, gave the first and only love of her life to one 
who represented in her eyes all that was good, and true, 
and noble in manhood. The love was mutual, and as 
time wore on, there came a happy day, when blissful 
vows were spoken, and an hour was taken out of the 
months to cbrne and named for the consummation of 
their joy. They parted for awhile : he returned to his 
own home, many hun'dred miles away; she watched 
and waited for the hour to come — eager — hopeful — 
joyous; it drew near; one day a letter came, in the 
dear, familiar hand : every day had brought its own 
sweet assurance of love, so that this one* was looked 
for; but if contained words that were forever after 
graven in her heart in characters of fire ; they were 
simply these: ‘We shall never meet again in this life.’ 
And they never did, Ruth ; nay, more, not one word 
was ever interchanged between them, but rumor, busy 
rumor brought the news of his marriage not long after ; 
the woman has ever since walked her way alcme ; she 
is old and gray; no other love has ever found its way 
into her heart ; she still bears her maiden name — 
Rachel Grey. He is rich, influential, sought after by 
fortune’s most favored ones; his name will survive him 
in his spn — Lester Lockhart. Yes, Ruth, that woman 
is your Aunt Rachel, and the man — Lester Lockhart’s 
father. You know all now; there is nothing untold, 
save the misery — the anguish — the despair that filled 
my life in the weary years that followed. There is no 
need to tell you this ; your nature is too much like my 
own to mistake the character of that silent, enduring 


MISERERE. 


159 


grief. If his son is like him, Ruth, — if treachery, de- 
ceit, and falsehood should bring sorrow into my dar- 
ling’s life, — it would kill you, child, and break the 
loving heart of 

‘‘Your 

“Aunt Rachel.” 

‘ ‘ Miserere nobis / miserere nobis /’ ’ a sweet, pure voice 
in a neighboring church wailed out in tender, piteous, 
pleading tones ; the sounds reached Ruth through the 
window, opened to cool the hot, flushed face and burn- 
ing palms of the suffering girl. Miserere I miserere P' 
another voice sobbed out in the darkness and silence. 

“I am going home to-morrow,” she said to Mrs. 
Von Arsdel, who found her sitting in the darkness, 
long after the midnight bell had tolled the hour of 
twelve. 

“ Without a word for Lester Lockhart !” 

“You will tell him all! There is Aunt Rachel’s 
letter! Read it!” 

“ I need not, child ! I know it all ! That sorrow, 
or one akin to it, will repeat itself in your own life, 
Ruth ! Listen to your heart ; obey its voice. Child, 
child ! if you but know how little there is of real happi- 
ness in this world, you would not surrender its blessed 
promise for the sake of all besides. A woman knows 
but one great, absorbing love in this life; she may 
accept a lesser, and, perhaps, be happy in it, but, child, 
C none other can ever fill the place of the first and bestj 
You will live to know — to feel the truth of what I say. 
Ruth, child, stay, and be happy in the love of Lester 
Lockhart.” 


i6p LIFE'S PROMISE TO PA Y. 

cannot ! I must go ! Though it kill me, I must 
go!” She threw her arms around Mrs. Von Arsdel’s 
neck ; deep sobs spoke her grief. 

God help you, child !” 

Ay indeed, God help her. 


“ To Thee I bring my care, 

That care I cannot flee ; ’ 

Thou wilt not only share, 

But take it aU from me. 

0 loving Saviour, now to Thee 

1 bring the load that wearies me. 

“ I bring my grief to Thee, 

The grief I cannot tell. 

No words shall needed be. 

Thou knowest all so well. 

I bring the sorrow laid on me, 

O suffering Saviour! all to thee.” 


BOOK IV. 


GATHERED. 


“ In due time, ye shall reap, if ye faint not.” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

HERE ! 

There is no other thing express'd, 
j But long disquiet merged in rest. 

Tennyson. 

H KNOW that my Redeemer liveth,’ and that in the 
good time He will call Mary ! and his faithful servant 
shall answer, Here, Lord, here!” the weak voice fal- 
tered in its faintest tone. “The good time is near at 
hand, and I hear Him calling, Mary, Mary ! Here am 
I, dear Lord I Do you know his voice, Rachel, child? 
Do you hear? I am ready. Lord, and waiting I Wait- 
ing — waiting !” 

“You were always ready, mother dear.” 

“Yes, child, always. ‘The wise took oil in their 
vessels with their lamps : then all those virgins arose 
and trimmed their lamps.’ Mine has been burning so 
long ! so long I And now, I hear his voice calling^ 
Mary ! Mary ! Here, Lord, here ! At last, child, my 
time has come. ‘And at midnight there was a cry 
made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh : go ye out to 

i6i 


i 62 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


meet Him.’ My bridegroom cometh. Do you see 
Him, child? Look! Look!” 

'VHe is near at hand, mother; you will see Him 
soon.” 

‘‘Yes, I shall, I shall; He is not a faithless bride- 
groom. He will keep his word ; and He is your bride- 
groom also, child, for has He not said, ‘ I will never 
leave thee nor forsake thee’ ?” 

“He has kept his word; He comes now to redeem 
his promise. Sleep, mother, you must be tired.” 

“I shall sleep soon, when his voice will say, ‘Well 
done, good and faithful servant, thou hast been faith- 
ful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many 
things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.’ We shall 
all enter, Rachel ! All ! Miriam and David will be there 
to bid us joy. Do you see them, Rachel? Ruth, little 
Ruth — do you see ? Oh, I see my children ! And 
listen to his voice calling, ‘Rachel! Rachel!’ Here, 
Lord, here ! R — u — t — h ! R — u — t — h ! ’ ’ 

“I am here beside your bed, grandmother.” 

“ ‘ Lord, nowlettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’ 
Let her hear thy voice calling Mary ! Mary ! And thine 
too, child. He will call Rachel ! Rachel ! Are you 
ready, child?” 

“My time is not yet come, mother.” 

“ But it will come ! And He is not a faithless bride- 
groom, Rachel, like that other one ! You weep, child ! 
For, what ? Does — it — not — give — you — joy — to — hear 
Him call Mary! Mary! Good and faithful servant! 
Does — it — not ’ ’ 

“Oh, mother!” 

“He was a faithless bridegroom, — faithless — faith- 


HERE. 


163 


less ! I see it all now, — it was forgotten, — but now it 
all comes back, — and I see my child, — my pretty 

child, — Rachel, my own child, — I see her here 

Ah, little Rachel, is it you?” 

“It is I, grandmother, your little Ruth.” 

“And Rachel, — where is she? Ah, there! tears and 
heart-ache have made her old ! I see ! I see I but there 
is another bridegroom, child ! One who has said, ‘ I 
will never leave thee, nor forsake thee 1’ And He never 
will, child ! Never I never ! When you shall hear his 
voice, know that He comes ! Believe it ! Do you 
believe it, child?” 

“ I know it, mother 1” 

You were always faithful, — always true ! Always ! 
always ! And He will reward thee, child, in his own 
good time. Be patient and ‘watch therefore, for ye 
know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of 
man cometh !’ He is here, even now! I hear his 
voice ! My time is almost come — almost come !” 

“Yes, mother; but you must rest before you go.” 

There could be no rest. All through the long hours 
of the night the feeble voice whispered in broken tones 
its thanksgiving for the hour of deliverance from the 
bondage of mortality. Towards the breaking of the 
dawn a new and strange light shone in her eye, — gray 
lines lengthened and deepened upon the pale, worn 
face, — cold drops gathered on the brow. An uneasy 
moan, — a look of recognition toward those about ber, 
— a broken whisper, “ ‘ Lord — now — lettest — thou — thy 
— servant — depart — in peace!’ Mary! M — a — r — y!” 

A voice in heaven answered, “Here!” 


164 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY, 


CHAPTER XLIV. ' 

ONE YEAR AGO. 

After all, beauty is in the mind. A scene is rather an index to feel- 
ings and association. COLE. 

^‘Your face is not so pretty now, old sea! One 
year has wrought a wondrous change in you and me 1 
One year — since I left home — a child ! And now> a 
woman 1 a woman 1 Will it always be? Has life 
nothing left me? Its promise to pay is unredeemed. 
Alas! old sea, should you bring back the stranger who 
met me here that spring-time day — I could not tell him 
that I have Hull value received!’ Ah, life! you are 
an insolvent debtor!” 

Sitting alone in her little room, looking towards the 
sea, with much of her old-time love, the past year came 
back, — its joys — its griefs — its disappointments. Mem- 
ory’s walls were hung with , pictures; a glowing land- 
scape scene of the fresh, bright morning in the garden 
at Gloaming Grange, when Lester Lockhart aroused a 
resistant spirit; the after autumn days, — the corona- 
tion scene, — the happy hour when Lester told her of 
his love, — her joy, — her sorrow, — the meeting again 
and its result, — that one sleigh-ride in a great city, — 
and the wretched hours of that same night, — these were 
the pictures that came in panoramic views. . Turning 


ONE YEAR AGO. 165 

away from their contemplation, she sat down beside the 
window. 

^‘Aunt Rachel is an old maid; so shall I be! It is 
plain that I can never marry Lester ! It is plainer still 
that I shall marry no one else! Have I a mission, 
I wonder? And if so, what is it? Will I ever know? 
How shall it be revealed to me ? I do not believe in 
missions ! In missions, I mean, whose exalted duties 
take one away from home — and friends— and happi- 
ness ! I have thought there could be solid joy only 
in what gave joy to me! Will I learn — ever learn — 
through my sorrows — that the happiness of others 
may make mine? Perhaps I have been selfish, — I 
know I have, — without excuse too ; — Aunt Rachel’s 
life is a beautiful model, — devotion to her mother and to 
me, — entire forgetfulness of self, — these have been the 
principles of her life, next to love for God : — if I were 
like her, — perhaps I might be, if it were possible to 
banish this sorrow that presses hard and close against my 
heart. But Lester’s voice, — his eyes, — the pressure of 
his hand,— who will help me forget them? Can I ever? 
Can I ever? Pretty sea, you laugh and dimple in the 
sunlight, little knowing how I suffer ! And little caring ! 
If I should live on, years and years ! And I may, for 
sorrow does not kill! Who can tell? Who can tell? 
I should be happy, — it is my right, — life must make a 
promise to each human being to give him that which is 
his greatest need, — mine is happiness, — I hunger and 
thirst for happiness, — my heart craves it as its daily 
food, — shall life not redeem the pledge? What is this 
that I am saying? and thinking? Can I be sure that 
such thoughts are not rebellious? I can be sure, of 

15 


i66 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


nothing now ! I am not myself! Will I ever be again? 
Aunt Rachel loves me, — she knows my sorrow, — knows 
it well, having walked the same desolate road many years 
ago, — she walks it still, but smoothing and brightening 
the way for others, — for all whom she meets, — while I 
am lost in the consciousness of self and its own griefs. 
Shall I say small griefs I Oh, no! it is not a light 
shadow that makes so deep a darkness !” 

Hopeful days — despairing days — desperate days came 
and went, — yet they were days, and time wore on. 
Aunt Rachel watched the face, grow pale, and the 
circles darken around the soft eyes, and watching, 
prayed that strength might be given the child she 
loved, — the needed strength to suffer and endure the 
present trial, that she might be saved a greater one. 

“Ruth, my child,” she said one day, “it grieves 
me to see you suffer, the more because I know full well 
what you suffer ! I would give you comfort ” 

“You cannot. Aunt Rachel ! I try to be happy. 
No, not happy, but content. It is impossible ! I will 
try no more !” 

“ Do not say so. You meet sorrow with a fierce, 
resistant spirit. It will do no good, child. Accept it, 
and bear the burdens it imposes with meekness and 
resignation. In this way only will peace ever find its 
way to your heart.” 

“lam not resigned. Aunt Rachel. I can never be.” 

“You can never be happy else.” 

“I do not want happiness bought at such a price. 
Krtyou happy. Aunt Rachel?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yet you have suffered, too?” 


ONE YEAR AGO. 


167 


Sorely.” 

*‘What has made you happy?” 

Resignation.” 

‘‘ But it does not always come.” 

You do not ask it, child.” 

‘‘Resignation implies humble acceptance, and that 
I cannot do. I do not believe that Heaven sent me 
such a trial : Heaven would not — I did not need it — 
I would be good, if I were happy ” 

“And you would be happy if you were good. My 
poor child, this spirit cannot endure : there is much in 
your nature that will subdue* the rebellious forces now 
at war in your heart. A time will come when the 
remembrance of these harsh words will fill you with 
the bitterest regret. For the rest, I will say no more. 
The Father knows his children, and will not let them 
wander far away; and so may He lead you back, child, 
sorrowing — loving — resigned to do his will in all 
things. 

" ‘ Thou wilt not leave us in the dust, 

Thou madest man, he knows not why : 

He thinks he was not made to die : 

And thou hast made him : thou art just.’ ’’ 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


1 68 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A STERN TUTOR, AND ILL-LEARNED LESSONS. 

Experience, 

If wisdom’s friend, her best : if not, worst foe. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

The page that experience opens for our reading is 
a prosy one, full of dry details and commonplace facts; 
the lines have no charm for us ; the style is severe : 
the diction harsh. It is not surprising, then, that the 
lesson must be forced upon us. If our life needs it, and 
yet will not learn the lesson without compulsion, who 
or what is to blame? But at eighteen, other chapters 
have not been well learned ; other tutors are not dis- 
missed ; Hope has but just tuned the strings for Love 
to play upon ; the harmony will be perfect j the music 
will fill our being with its soft, sweet notes. Love 
strikes one chord and is silenced. Another comes, — one 
with stern mien and frowning aspect, — hushes the sounds 
of sweetness — thrusts out the joy-giver — and forces into 
the reluctant pupil’s hand a book whose pages must be 
studied and learned for the sake of dry, unattractive 
but all-important lessons. No master so exacting — so 
merciless — so unforgiving of neglect — so resolute in 
the enforcement of every detail — in the imposed prac- 
tice of every precept. It were well to learn at the 
beginning — and to remember^ since every forgotten or 


A STERN TUTOR. 


169 


ill-remembered lesson must be re-learned with double 
care and double pain. Who shall tell eighteen this ? 
More, who will bring conviction ? Experience guards 
her knowledge closely — hoards her secrets with jealous 
care. No other book in life hints her wisdom, — nay, 
more, those who have learned her lessons are denied 
the faculty of imparting their knowledge : they cannot 
teach ; their words assume repulsive shapes ; listeners 
are wanting ; disciples cannot be found ; or, if one stops 
to hear, he smiles and turns away incredulous. So it 
is that, from the beginning of the world till Ruth’s 
time, every heart has learned the same lesson from the 
same Preceptress — and no other, — because every one 
who learns is denied the power of making converts. 

Eighteen is slow to take the book, and slower to 
learn. Memories are with her — of the bright-eyed, 
sweet-voiced one, who came and fain would linger, — 
the joy-giver and hope-dispenser thrust out of sight 
by the severe presence of this merciless experience. 

Eighteen looks longingly towards the door whence 
that dear presence' went out, hoping for his return — 
hungering for the sweets with which he nourished her 
— yearning for the sight of his happy face — for the 
sound of that silenced chord. It is a false hope that 
allures her from her task, — she will banish it — she will 
be herself. Yet how? This book will teach her : she 
will learn and ponder over and strive to remember its 
earliest lesson. 

First, It tells me I must know myself. 

‘‘ Second, I must control myself and my emotions. 

“Third, I must look at life as it is, not as I would 
have it. 


170 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


Fourth, I must admit self-questioning. 

‘‘ Fifth, I must exclude false hopes. 

Sixth, I must state clearly every proposition of a 
bewildering, nature, and devote myself faithfully to its 
solution. 

Now, to begin at once. First, I must know myself! 
I know nothing now but my love for Lester Lockhart ! 
But I have given him up, and forever. That is clear. 
I can never forget him — never admit another to his 
place. I might recall him, and defy Aunt Rachel, — f/ia^ 
I will never do ! To cherish and brood over this sorrow 
would sadden Aunt Rachel, — and take away from my 
strength of mind and body, — that I must not do. Life 
would be an agony ! Justice to self and to others de- 
mands that I should put it out of sight— if that be 
possible, — yes, if it be possible ! Well, I can only 
try ; and. Heaven helping, I will try with every power 
of mind and body. If I should succeed, I shall be 
stronger; and if I. should fail, I cannot help it T' 


WEAK, BUT GB OWING. 


171 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

WEAK, BUT GROWING. 

Live — yet live, — 

Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will, — 

Live happy. 

Tennyson. 

Ruth, would you like to make a visit with me this 
morning?” 

“Where, Aunt Rachel?” 

“ To Mrs. Fairley’s : her husband, you know, died 
a few weeks since. She is sorely grieved, poor woman. 
Six years of a happy married life are gone, and she is 
left widowed, poor, and with two little children. 
Young, helpless, and alone, what will she do? We 
must think of some means to help her.” 

A month had passed since Mr. Fairley’s death. In 
the mean time, Rachel Grey had spent many hours ip 
the desolate home, quietly seeking to lend an atmos- 
phere of light to the dark place where death had been. 

They found Mrs. Fairley seated near the window, 
looking out upon the morning fairness with an air of 
desolation. The light had left her life. A brown- 
haired child of four played upon the floor: a baby 
nestled in the crib. 


“ There he lay upon his back. 
The yearling creature, warm and moist with life 


172 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


To the bottom of his dimples — to the ends 
Of the lovely, tumbled curls about his face ; 

For since he had been covered over-much 
To keep him from the light glare, both his cheeks ■ . 
Were hot and scarlet as the first live rose 
t The shepherd’s heart-blood ebbed away into, 

The faster for his love. And love was here 
As instant ! in the pretty baby-mouth, 

Shut close as if for dreaming that it sucked ; 

The little naked feet drawn up the way 
Of nestled birdlings : everything so soft 
And tender — to the little holdfast hands. 

Which, closing on a finger into sleep. 

Has kept the mould of ’t.” 

I have been thinking of you every day since I was 
here,” Aunt Rachel said. 

Heaven bless you, Miss Grey, for the comfort you 
have been in this great trial ! ’ ’ 

‘‘I have reached no conclusion about what is best 
for you to do, and so am here to talk it over with you 
again.” 

The baby put up its hands to Ruth ; she lifted him 
into her arms. 

‘‘A teacher in the Haywood School will leave next 
month, I learn,” Aunt Rachel continued, “and we 
might be able to secure the place for you. The chil- 
dren could be left with us, you know ” 

“Oh, yes!” Ruth interrupted with a glad smile, 
pressing the baby’s dimpled hand against her face. 

“ With economy, the salary would answer for your 
present needs,” Aunt Rachel said. 

“I have thought of that myself. Miss Grey; but, un- 
fortunately, my superficial education would not justify 
me in undertaking to teach. How could I impart that 


WEAK, BUT GROWING. 


173 


which J know so imperfectly? I was the only child of 
wealthy parents, who gave me every opportunity of pre- 
paring myself for the serious duties of life, but I hated 
what seemed the drudgery of school-work, and spent 
my time in acquiring what has been of little use. In- 
deed, Miss Grey, I sadly lack the substantial knowledge 
necessary for successful teaching.” 

‘‘ I might get you a class in music ” 

‘‘In that, too, I should fail, lacking that thorough 
knowledge of theory which is essential for funda- 
mental instruction. The graceful execution which I 
acquired by long years of practice has been lost during 
the years of my married life. You see how poorly I 
am fitted for this and every other useful occupation. 
There is nothing left for me to do but die. Were it 

not for these little ones ” 

“ Die ! Oh, Mrs. Fairley!” Ruth exclaimed, “would 
you die and leave these beautiful babies? You must 
learn to teach music, — you have the ability — I know 
you have j and I will help you, — it will be something 
to keep me busy, — I shall so enjoy it, — we will study to- 
gether difficult compositions — and practice together, — 
the sight of these two little faces will give you courage, 
and make me happy. Oh, Aunt Rachel, I am so glad 
you thought of the music-lessons ! It will be splendid 1 ’ ’ 
“I fear to trust myself,” Mrs. Fairley answered, 
sadly. 

“You must not fear,” Aunt Rachel said, “and you 
will not, remembering Him who has promised to be a 
God to the widow and the fatherless.” ‘ 

“ He is my only strength ; in Him I put my trust.” 
“ He will not forsake you,” Aunt Rachel said, rising 


174 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


to go. And now, begin at once to think about this 
preparatory work ; Ruth will help, and there shall be 
no trouble about your class. With busy fingers and 
busier brain, you’ll have no time to spare, and in his 
own good time the Father will send you peace and 
resignation.” 

You are too good. Miss Grey ; I cannot speak my 
thanks, but ’ ’ They were spoken by a tear. 

Walking home that day, Ruth looked down upon 
the valleys smiling green and golden in the sunlight ; 
tinted clouds seemed to rest upon the distant hills; 
soft fleecy vapors floated above the purplish tree-top 
shadows. The morning air was sweet, and fresh and 
pure. A little of the old-time joy came stealing back, 
— Ruth’s susceptibility to beauty was wrought upon by 
these fair influences. 

“ Despite that sad scene, I am glad to-day. Aunt 
Rachel, and almost happy. Yet how sad it is that 
Mrs. Fairley’s life should have been shadowed by so 
dark a cloud in the very spring-time of her married 
joy!” 

How much sadder that one upon whom so much 
depends should seem utterly incapable of making an 
effort even for those she loves 1” 

‘‘Yes, that is sadder still,” Ruth said, musingly. 
“ If I should ever need to work ” 

“You would not lack the disposition — the energy — 
the ability.” 

“Thanks to you. Aunt Rachel.” 

“Thank your heavenly Father, Ruth.” 

“I do thank Him for having given me you, ma 
bonne mere. ’ ’ 


A WELL-KEPT PROMISE. 


175 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

A WELL-KEPT PROMISE. 

What is difficulty ? Only a word indicating the degree of strength 
requisite for accomplishing particular objects ; a mere notice of the 
necessity for exertion ; a bugbear to children and fools ; only a mere . 
stimulus to men. 

** Warren. 

Ruth was as resolute in the fulfillment of her work as 
she had been earnest in giving it. The next day she 
I began the work; and, everyday, for many weeks when 
? the weather permitted, two of the morning hours were 
; spent with Mrs. Fairley in the study of music. Once 
; given the key that unlocked the book of theory, Ruth’s 
; pupil found the language quite intelligible ; the charac- 
; ters she had interpreted wdth mechanical skill were 
j full of a newer and fuller meaning, now that their sig- 
■ nificance was made quite clear. Music as a science 
J possessed a deeper and more solid interest than music 
: as an art. 

Ruth found pleasure in the work ; a resolute purpose 
and concentrated energies for its accomplishment al- 
ii lowed but little time for the entertainment of fevered 
^ thought. Those two morning hours were the happiest 
i of all the day ; their coming was anxiously looked for, 

. their going sincerely regretted. “ If I might always 
work,” she thought, “I should be content; but, what 
i is there left for me to do ? Busy fingers bring no com- 


176 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY 


fort, because thought does not keep them company. 
I will make a systematic division of my time, allotting 
to every duty its own hour. I will exercise — do house- 
hold work — read, write — exercise again, and sleep. I 
am so tired of this clinging sorrow ! Help me to for- 
get it, oh, my Father ! I shall never see Lester Lock- 
hart again in this life. We are parted forever ! It is 
better, far better that we should never meet. I know 
this full well. Why cannot I be reconciled? I am 
spared the sorrow of being ‘near and yet so far,’ — 
false hopes are shut out forever. In^this, Heaven has 
been kind. Be kinder still, and help me forget this 
sorrow. And I will help myself, by destroying every 
relic that is fraught with remembrance — even the few 
lines he wrote me last, after that wretched night when 
Aunt Rachel’s letter came. Here they are. I will 
read you once more, dear lines, — only once more, — 
and then, farewell forever ! 

“ ‘ Gone, and without one word ! Your plighted word 
to me is as nothing compared with your blind sense of 
duty to tyrannous exaction. Is this your love for me ? 
This the joy I had promised myself? Ruth, you are 
weak ; and not only weak, but cruel to yourself and 
me. Some time, you may repent it. But of this you 
may be sure, Ruth De Harte, — if ever we should meet 
again in this life, it will be at your bidding — nof 
mine. Lester Lockhart. ’ 

“ I will never bid him come to me ! Never ! never ! 
My new life begins this hour. Henceforth, Lester 
Lockhart, I will be myself if possible, though Heaven 


A WELL-KEPT PROMISE. 


177 

knows I love you. Even Remembrance and Ruth are 
parted forever ! ” 

To speak the truth, she applied herself to the task 
with new-found earnestness and vigor; and a task she 
found it, — always beginning-^never ending; but it gave 
her strength to stifle — crush — repress old emotions that 
were troublesome ; it forced her to find new methods 
of employment ; left no time for the nurture of morbid 
sensibilities ; and the doing of a little good to others 
— the gaining of a little strength — lent a stray bit of 
light to her saddened life. 

There were days wh^n she seemed almost happy; 
and other days, when the past came back with such a 
rush that intention — resolution were put to flight, and 
the struggle to rally retreating forces was a desperate 
one. But a new ally came one day, introduced to her 
notice by Aunt Rachel. 

“Ruth, I met yesterday the new teacher for the 
Haywood School. I promised her that you should see 
her soon. I shall be glad to have you know her.” 

“ Who is she. Aunt Rachel ? What is her name?” 

“ Her name is Adair McDowell.” 

“ What is she like ?” 

“Like nothing that I have ever seen.” 

“Describe her.” 

“ She is tall- — dark and — rather handsome.” 

“Will I like her, do you think?” 

“I cannot^^tell ; she is prepossessing; I was pleased 
with her.” 

“ Where is she ?” 

“At Mrs. Winston’s.” 

“Then I will go to-day.” 

16 


178 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER XLVIIL 

ADAIR MCDOWELL. 

Judge before friendship, then confide till death. 

Young. 

/ 

*‘l HAVE heard of you already, Miss De Harte, and 
heard truly," Adair McDowell said, with a bright 
smile, looking into Ruth’s face with an admiring ex- 
pression that suggested a delicate compliment. ‘‘You 
were kind to come so soon. I hope we may be friends." 

“I hope so, too," Ruth answered, with cordial 
warmth of tone and manner. “ It would give a new 
element of pleasure to my life to have a friend about 
my own age." 

“ I am older than you," Miss McDowell said ; “ but 
the difference is not so great as to make any inequality 
in our friendship. I stand ‘ upon the brink of twenty 
years.’ 

“Young, strong, and sure of God," Ruth said. 
“ You read Mrs. Browning, too. There is one link in 
the chain already. Perhaps our tastes may be similar. 
What pleasure that would be !’’ 

The excitement of pleasant conversation deepened 
the warm, bright tints of her cheek, and intensified the 
brilliancy of her clear gray eye. Miss McDowell’s face 
had a beauty all its own ; not beauty in the sense of 
delicate outlines, graceful curves, and the perfection of 


ADAIR McD O WELL, 


179 


finish, — her features were strongly marked, each one 
clear, distinct, expressive in itself. Dark-gray eyes, 
fringed with soft, curving lashes, destroyed one harsh 
effect, — the decided upward tendency of the line that 
gives character to the mouth, — put,to flight another, — 
and an indescribable expression pervading the whole 
was like a veil, seen through which, the face was soft- 
ened, mellowed, severity hushed, harshness silenced. 

‘^You wish that our tastes may be similar. Miss 
McDowell; that would be ‘like to like;’ to me, it 
seems that ‘like in difference’ would be a stronger ce- 
ment.” 

“My mind does not make the distinction,” Miss 
McDowell said. “ Explain.” 

“I will. On the subject of friendships I have read, 
‘ That two men may be perfect friends they must inces- 
santly, in some way, attract and repel one another; 
they must have genius of equal power, but of a different 
kind ; contrary opinions, but similar principles ; differ- 
ent antipathies and partialities, but at the bottom the 
same sensibility ; opposite tempers, and yet like tastes ; 
in a word, great contrasts of character and great har- 
monies of heart.’ That is my meaning. The friend- 
ship that is the outgrowth of exactly similar tastes, 
sympathies, and feelings seems to me a ‘ namby-pamby’ 
sentiment that would not withstand the shock of one 
strong, honest difference.” 

“ You are a little metaphy ^iriap j I am not. In one 
respect though we are alike : we both look into the 
nature of things, but we select different subjects' for 
analysis.” 

“Then, according to my theory, we have found a 


l8o LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 

second element, and a substantial one, for the founda- 
tion of our structure.” 

“ True ; though I think your theory a doubtful one ; 
at least it admits of argument.” 

* “ What subjects do you study. Miss McDowell ?” 

Trees, flowers, rocks, and children.'^^ 

Children, you say ! Why not men ?” 

^‘Because the page has been defaced. Just as it 
came from the hand of God it is full of interest. Of 
course growth must develop its first conditions, but I 
like the study of mind only in the earliest stages of its 
growth.” 

Yet it is more fully developed in the latest stage. 
A half-way investigation gives no satisfaction ; but 
there must be intense delight in the close pursuit of a 
study whose beginning promises much, and whose end 
is within reach.” 

“ There is no such subject in the vast arena of human 
knowledge. Miss De Harte.” ‘ 

‘‘I know it.” 

“And it is well. No disciples could be found for 
the study that had a limit here. The end of every be- 
ginning is but the beginning of another end, — remote, 
boundless, limitless. To the mind of every faithful 
seeker after knowledge comes the thought, when death 
is about to cut short his investigation, that he had but 
reached the border line of an immense, unexplored 
region where Nature does her secret work.” 

“Yes, I know; but you — why is it?” 

“You are wondering that I should stop short? I 
will tell you why. Circumstance, contact with the 
world, distorts, misshapes, — disappointment warps, — 


ADAIR MCDOWELL. 


i8l 


the child that was once loving and gentle and joyous 
becomes a stern, severe, solitary, loveless woman. I 
cannot bear its contemplation !” 

And yet the germ must have been there in the 
beginning. Is not the process of its development full 
of interest?” 

‘‘The germ was not there in the beginning. It was 
inserted, grafted, — and the selfish ^ion absorbs all the 
life-giving juices, and leaves the nature to starve for 
want of needed nourishment.” 

“ I do not think so. There is difference in the men- 
tal texture at the beginning, else all natures would 
warp equally under disappointment; still, it is not so. 
Aunt Rachel’s life is beautiful, yet it has been one long 
sorrow. I know another ” 

“Your Aunt Rachel’s face has a quiet tenderness in 
its expression that I never saw so clearly in any face 
before.” 

“ She tender !” 

“You live alone with her?” 

“Since graudmother’s death we have been alone.” 

“ You live in the pretty little cottage on the hill- 
side?” 

“Yes: fronting the sea.” 

“I envy you the vision. But I shall share it with 
you sometimes. Do you love the sea?’’ 

“As we love only those whose faces we have always 
known, and whose voices we have always heard.” 

“You have always lived here?” 

“ This has ever been my home. I spent a large part 
of last year in New York State, visiting one of Aunt 
Rachel’s friends.” 

1 6* 


i 82 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


‘‘ You saw something of the world, then. I hope the 
lesson was a pleasant one.” 

‘‘It was a useful lesson, perhaps.” The last word 
had a doubtful tone. “But I must go now. Our ac- 
quaintance has but just begun, yet I seem to know you 
well. You will come soon ?” 

“I will, indeed; though, as I am one ‘of the hew- 
ers of wood and drawers of water,’ my time is not 
entirely at my command. But I will take time to see 
you. Miss De Harte, and that very, very soon.” 

“Thank you: I shall be so glad. My name is 
Ruth,” she said, smiling. 

“And mine, Adair. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE NEXT DAY. 

Words are the soul’s ambassadors, which go 
Abroad upon her errands to and fro. 

Howel. 

“ Here I am, true to my word, with you, Ruth, and 
in sight of the sea.” 

“It is a sullen sea to-day. I love it less when its 
face is joyless.” 

“It is the absence of joy that makes lis yoyless. 
f Are your friends less dear when they are sad ^ 

“I have no friends, Adair, or so few that it- has not 


THE NEXT DA K 


183 

been necessary to make distinctions between their* 
joyous and their joyless moods. Had I a friend indeed, 
— one whom I loved, — ^joy and sorrow could make no 
difference; to me she would always be the same. I 
love the sea, and therefore the sight of her cold, gray 
face to-day makes me sad. It is a soulless face. Shall 
we walk out nearer?” 

After awhile, when I am better rested. At pres- 
ent I cannot b^ allured from this atmosphere of violets. 
Where is the sweet presence ?” 

“ In the book upon the table, pressed between the 
leaves. ’ ’ 

‘‘For shame, Ruth! I will deliver them from 
bondage.” 

“ They were dying, Adair, — almost dead. It is 
their living fragrance that reaches you, — the subtle 
sweetness they spread around when filling the little 
mantel- vase. I could not see them droop and die ” 

“You choose rather to crush out the little life left 
them. Cruel’ Ruth 1 There they lie, stiff and cold! 
They mark — what ? Let me see — 

ABSOLUTION. 

“ Two loved a few.years since, and read anew 
The mysteries of God ; and earth and sky 
Were but reflections of the great I Am, 

Whose name was Love ; for Love is God, they said, 

And thought it were the same as God is Love. 

“ So they smiled on in a large land of smiles. 

Where, as of old, the blind man with half-sight 
Saw men as trees before him ; and their feet 
Went airily along on untouched earth, 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 

And birds were angels, and to love was life. 

And with the eyes of children that first see 
And know it, so they saw and wondered much 
How they had ever lived so blind before. 

‘ And then the real awakening came,— the day 
When, children still, they learnt to see beyond 
The mazy borders of the land of love ; 

Saw more than men as trees, and learnt to know 
The harder after-lesson of ‘ I feel.’ 

All life not fair, — all men not true ; some hard. 

And some as pitiless as hail from heaven. 

And a gaunt figure, called the World, strode up, 
And came between them, and the gods of earth 
Lift up themselves and asked for human hearts, 

And theirs were offered on the golden shrine. 

‘ They parted, as the old tales run ; and none 
But God and such as part can tell the woe 
Of the long days that moaned themselves away, 
Like billows beating on a sandy shore. 

Whose song is ever of long Death and Time — 
Forever breaking their full hearts, and still 
Ungathering all the weight of woe again. 

To break forever. But billows that are tired 
Sink down at last into a patient calm. 

Seeing their breaking fruitless. And so she. 

Wed to another, with the child she bore. 

Rocked her old sorrows into fitful sleep. 

And prayed the Holy Mother bless the child. 

And keep him safe, heart-whole from love and grief. 

‘ So many years rolled by ; when on a day 
The sun of warmer countries, beating strong 
Upon the Roman's city, flooded all the dome 
Of Peter as with fire from God. And there, 
Within, alone in that great solitude. 

Keeping his watch for any lambs might seek 
There to be shriven of their sins, and set 
Anew upon the highway of their God, 


THE NEXT DA K 


A priest, unseen, with his long wand outstretched. 
Silence reigned speaking. And to his heart £>nd God 
The Father spake. When, lo! there swayed far off 
The outer curtain, and there came the tread 
Of swift light feet along the marble Vay. 

“ A woman fair, with beauty of full life ; 

Girlish in all her movements, yet with pain 
Of. Holy Mother by the Holy Rood, 

On the sweet face from which she cast the veil, 

And looked about her. But the beckoning wand 
Called to her mutely, — and she paused and knelt. 

" ‘ Father, canst understand my English tongue?’ 

‘ Yea.’ ‘ Then I thank my God, for I am sad 
And burthened so with sin, I cannot walk 
With head erect among my fellow-men. 

Arid I am stranger here, and would confess. 

“ ‘ Father, it was no sin ! It seemed not so 
When it was near me, in that time' long past! 

But gobd thoughts, held beyond their time, are sin. 
And good thoughts asked of us by God may turn 
To foul corruption if we hold them here. 

Listen to me. A long, long time gone. by 
I loved. Start not. My love was free ; no chain 
Bound me to suffer. All the world was mine. 

And over it there flushed the rosy light 

Of a new love, — God knows how true and pure 1 

Father, a love that holy men like you 

Need never shrink from, — such a love as but 

To taste the blessedness of loving so 

Were heaven on earth. But then to hear and learn 

He love^ me was a tale too great, — too dear ' 

For mortal heart to bear alone, and beat. 

And so God thought to' make us one, — for I 
Had died but that his heart could share with me 
In part the joyfulness, the too-much bliss. 

“ ‘ Father, when just my weaker soul had grown 
To lean its fullness on him, — when the times 


i86 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


And seasons passed unseen, because that I 
Felt only constant summer by my side, — 

Then — they came between us. Had he died. 

He still were mine hereafter. Christ, himself 
Has His own bride, — the. Church. But I was wed. 
And he passed from me to I know not where. 

“ ‘ Father, the years have passed. I thought that I 
Had learnt so well the lesson — to forget ; 

But Memory listens, as a wakeful child. 

And all the more the watcher bids him sleep, 

He opens wide his eyes, and makes reply, 

And will not sleep for bidding. It is so, 

Father, with me. And in my children’s eyes 
I see reproaches ; and their baby-hands. 

That wreathe me, seem to say, “You are not true. 
Not a true mother, for your life is past; 

You only love us somewhere in a dream.” 

“ ‘ Father, he lives, — my husband. ‘And his love 
Speaks, too, reproaches. For when he can smile, 

I cannot, as good wives should do, smile back. 

And lie myself to gladness. I turn there. 

My God ! to those long days have burnt their brand 
Into my heart. When I could live ; before, — 

0 Father! that “ before !” — that great, great gulf 
That gapes between us ! Ah 1 I hear you start ! 

Did you speak. Father? I am vile ; but now 
Shrive me before I take my load away. 

" ‘ Stay 1 there is one stain more. If I should see 
His face — again — on this side of the grave. 

My God 1 and if he called me, *■ W^ill you come?” 

1 sometimes think I could not choose but go. 

Pray for me. Father, — I have told you all. 

But God is gracious, — do not you be hard, — 

But answer. Father, and then shrive me so.’ 

“ There was a long, long silence, as she knelt. 

And then, at length, a voice as of the wind. 


THE NEXT DA Y. 


187 


Moaning a little in a wooded place, 

Came to her softly : 

“ ‘ Daughter, be thou still 
And patient. It is the great God’s will. 

I, too, have suffered ; had a love like thine. 

And lost it ! and long since have laid it by. 

" ‘ Daughter, go home. It were not well to stay 
Longer in this blest place, — we two, — alone. 

I shrive thee so, — from sin. Pray thou for me, 

'As I for thee. In heaven — hereafter — 

I will speak with thee again.’ 

“ She moved, — she rose, and past out from the place 
With heart made gladder. And the curtain fell. 

And the soft footsteps on the marble died. 

‘‘ It was the silence only and his God 
That heard a moan beyond the outstretched wand,— 

A long, long sigh, as of a spirit past. 

And then, in broken whispers, came at length : 

“ ‘ Into thy hands, my God ! the gate is past, — 

Death hath no longer sting, and Life hath nought 
For me to fear or shrink from any more. 

My God, I thank thee ! Thine the power, the might. 

That held my breath, ^nd made me more than man ! 

If I have suffered my full meed of pain. 

Let me go hence ! And on the other side 
Show me Thy Bride, that I may fill my soul 
And have no aching there — nor any part 
In looking earthwards, — back to earthly things.’ 

“ That night in Rome a heavy bell tolled slow 
In convent walls. And cowled brothers prayed 
For Brother Francis, entered into rest. 

There is a date in pencil written on the margin, 
— October 27th. Is the writing yours, Ruth ?” 


i88 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY, 


‘^No.” 

There is a tremor in your voice, Ruth, and tears 
fill your eyes. What is the matter?” 

‘‘There is pathos in your tones and in the lines. 
That is all.” 

“Is that all ? Then, get your hat, and we will take- 
the promised walk. Come here and see this picture 
first, — a sky of mother-of-pearl ; the clouds are gone, 
leaving here and there just a shadow. See that long, 
shining river of blue, with floating ice! See the low- 
lying valleys with spring-blossoms in the sunlight and 
snow in the shaded spots ! See that rosy streak amid 
the gray, and the white amid the blue 1 And the flash- 
ing, dancing sea 1 It is glorious ! Come ! 

“ ‘ Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weariness?’ ” 

“ Let’s away to the sea, the 


“To watch the 


* glad, blue sea,’ ” 


‘ billows that are tired 
Sink down at last into a patient calm^. 
Seeing their breaking fruitless !’ ” 


Ruth said, quietly. 

“ The scent of the violets hangs round you still, 
Ruth. Those pretty lines, full of morbid sentiment, 
have found a place in your memory. Think what an 
unlikely story they tell, and shake off their influence.” 

“Adair, your voice was full of tears while you 
read.” 

“As were your eyes! What of that? The lines 


THE NEXT DAY, 189 

need tears to bring out the sentiment. I was reading 
for effect. ” 

You do not believe them ?” 

* ‘ Believe them ? No ! ” 

Does a woman have but one love in this life, 
think you, Adair?” 

But one ! Fiddlestick ! I have had six, and ex- 
pect to have six more in as many years. I loved each 
one madly, and the last always better than any that 
preceded him. At present the throne .is vacant, — 
waiting for some one to proclaim his right. When he 
comes, no one shall dispute his claim or pronounce 
him an usurper.”. 

If that were true, Adair, you would be ranked 
among the commonplace young ladies, who, Char- 
lotte Bronte says, ^can be quite as hard 'as common- 
place young gentlemen, — quite as worldly and selfish. 
Those who suffer should always avoid them;’ she says, 

^ grief and calamity they despise; they seem to regard 
them as the judgments of God on the lo.wly. With 
them, to ‘Move” is merely to contrive a scheme for 
achieving a good match; to be “disappointed” is to 
have their scheme seen through and frustrated.’ ” 

“Go on,” Adair said, with assumed meekness, when 
Ruth was done speaking, “lam ready for the sacrifice. ’ ’ 
“Shesays, too,” Ruth went on, “ ‘it isgood for women, 
especially, to be endowed with a soft blindness, to have 
mild, dim eyes that never penetrate below the surface 
of things, — that take all for what it seems ; thousands, 
knowing this, keep their eyelids drooped, on system, 
but the most downcast glance has its loop-hole, through 
which it can, on occasion, take its sentinel-survey of 

17 


190 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY 


life.’ If then, Adair, you think to make me accept you 
for what you seem, remember, please, that l am a woman 
and that I keep my eyelids drooped on purpose. Will 
you?” 

will do anything that you wish! Here we are, 
deaf to the music of the sea! Let us listen — and be 
quiet!” 

They stood side by side, looking out upon immensity, 
listening to the low, plaintive tones of the surging, 
beating waves. Ruth’s face wore a thoughtful, sad- 
dened look. Adair’s was tender, — grave, — musing ; 
the laughing tones were hushed, the mirth all gone ; 
nor did it reappear when, walking home alone, she 
spoke aloud her thoughts : 

“ That girl has a hidden sorrow, that is robbing her 
face of its bloom and brightness. I saw it when, after 
reading those tenderly beautiful lines, I looked into 
her face. What a sweet voice she has ! I will never 
read sentiment, or anything that savors of it, in her 
presence. Much less shall I talk sentiment. To be 
gentle, — kind, — affectionate, and yet unsympathizing, 
— to seem intensely practical without mockery or ridi- 
cule, will be a difficult work ; but I must undertake it, 
and at once, for her sake. What can the matter be ? 
Of course, I know there’s a man at the bottom of it.” 


ADAIRS S FLOCK. 


191 


CHAPTER L. 
adair’s flock. 

There still are many rainbows in your sky. 

Byron. 

In the midst of a noisy, happy little throng, Ruth 
found Adair not many days after. 

‘‘Here are my lambs, Ruth! And here is their 
shepherdess ! Come in ! Children, run and play ! 
We will finish the story another time.” 

“Who is telling the story, the shepherdess, or one 
of the lambs?” Ruth said, brightly. “Because, per- 
haps I should like to hear it.” 

“ Maggie Brown is our story-teller to-day. Come 
here, Maggie. The young lady whom you see is Miss 
Ruth De Harte. Well 1 Have you nothing to say?” 

“She is pretty,” Maggie said, archly, looking up 
into Ruth’s face with a sidelong glance. 

“Is that your only salutation, Maggie?” 

“Ma'am?” 

“ Is that your only salutation?” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“ Bless your little heart 1” Ruth said, with face aglow, 
“of course you don’t know what that means; come 
here, Maggie, and I will tell you. There ! When 
you see Miss Adair in the morning for the first time, 
what do you say ?” 


192 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


“ I say ^ Howd’y !’ ” 

“Do you? Well, that’s a salutation. If you had 
bowed your little head to me, and said, ^ Miss De 
Harte,’ that would have been a salutation. But you 
didn’t choose to do it, Maggie. You preferred to tell 
me I was pretty, because you honestly think so. You 
are wise, little Maggie. If you meet every new ac- 
quaintance in this life as you’ve met me this morning, 
friends will be thick as leaves in autumn.” 

“ Mind your precepts, Ruth ! Don’t demoralize my 
lapabs !” Adair said, with mock gravity. 

“ Come, go on with your story, Maggie. Children, 
you were listening. What was the story about? — 
Fairies?” 

“No, ma’am, not fairies!” Maggie’s pretty voice 
said, with emphasis; “ ’twas a real story about living, 
sure-enough folks !” 

“ Weil, who were the folks?” 

“ A Peri ! Ain’t a Peri folks? A Peri is an angel, 
and angels is folks, ain’t they? Mamma says so ! God’s 
people ! they is ! and people is folks 1” 

“Angels are spirits, Maggie,” Ruth said, with an 
amused smile. 

“ Don’t you know about the Peri ? Mamma learned 
it all out of a book, and maybe did too, and if you 
did, I sha’n’t tell it, ’cause I don’t know it very 
good 1 ” 

“ The story of Paradise and the Peri?” 

“ Yes — that’s it !” 

“ I know the story, Maggie, but I should like to hear 
you tell it.” 

“Oh— I can’t!” 


ADAIH^S FLOCK. 


193 


^‘Please — won’t you?” 

An emphatic shake of the head, accompanied hy a 
little tone of dissent, familiar to those who hear chil- 
dren talk, but impossible to convey by means of speech. 

“ You tell us, won’t you. Miss De Harte?” a soft, 
brown-eyed child said in timid but pleading tones. 

“Please do — oh yes — do — Miss De Harte, — won’t 
you?” 

The little group crowded round, with eager voices 
and faces full of interest. 

“You can’t resist that pleading, Ruth. Come! 
begin 1 You are enthroned I We are all your sub- 
jects 1 Maggie shall be your page !” 

“ Come here, Maggie. Sit right there, with your 
head in my lap, that I may not forget how the Peri 
looked. She was like you, Maggie. ” 

“ Wasn’t he a boy ?” 

“ No, a girl, and just like you. Her hair was of a 
bright golden brown, and lay in sunny curls against 
her brow, just as yours does. And her eyes were of 
the deepest, darkest blue, and little dimpling smiles 
played hide-and-seek amid the pretty blooms of her 
fair, sweet face. She was a bonny Peri, Maggie, just 
as you would be, floating above the clouds, with an 
azure dress, and soft, white, fluttering wings, — with the 
air kissing your temples and blowing its breath among 
the golden threads of your hair. Don’t you think you 
would like to be a Peri, Maggie?” 

“ Not if I was shut out of heaven, like that Peri.” 

“ But she got in again, Maggie.” 

“She didn’t know she would, though. She wasn’t 
sure. And she might have been flying about over the 
17* 


194 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


world till now if she hadn’t happened to see the play- 
ing child and the sorry man. I think if I’d been shut 
out once, I’d stay out ! Must have been nicer outside 
anyhow, flying all about the world, and seeing all kinds 
of beautiful sights, than to be forever shut up ! I think 
the Peri was a goose ! don’t you, Susie?” 

“/haven’t heard the story, and won’t, if you talk 
so much !” 

“Oh, Maggie! Maggie!” Adair said; “you are a 
little heretic to begin with ! You must be converted !” 

‘‘ Indians is heretics ! I am not an Indian !” 

Hush, Maggie ! You talk too mucfij^ Susie said, 
impatiently. “ I want to hear the story ! Don’t you, 
girls?” 

“Yes ! yes !” answered more than a dozen voices.. 

Seated in a double row around her, twenty children 
awjiited in listening attitudes the opening of the story. 
Childish faces — young, sweet, and fair — faces that never 
had been young, — heads brown, black, golden — curl- 
ing, shining, disordered, — eyes glad, joyous, tender, 
grave, thoughtful, sad. Ruth had never such an audi- 
ence in her life before. The eyes looking into hers 
furnished inspiration ; watching each little childish 
face, as if to read, its story, she waited a moment, then 
began : 

“Once upon a time, long, long ago, one of a ban- 
ished race — a race shut out from the joys of heaven — 
stood at its gates listening to the sounds within ; and 
as she listened, wept for her own loss and that of her 
race. ‘ How happy are they within,’ she said, ‘wander- 
ing amid flowers that never fade! One blossom of 
Heaven outblooms all the flowers that grow in my 


ADAIR^S FLOCK. 


195 

gardens on sea — on earth — in stars. One drop of water 
there outshines all the golden floods that dance and 
play — the silver fountains that sparkle and glimmer — 
even the sunny waves of cool Cashmere. One minute 
of Heaven is worth more than all the pleasures of each 
luminous world — of every star — of every sphere, even 
through the countless years of the4r existence.’ An 
angel keeping guard heard the sobs and saw the tears ; 
and as he listened, a tear-drop glistened on his own 
cheek. 

“‘Fair child of an erring line,’ he said, ‘one 
hope is left you. In the book of fate these words are 
written : 

“ The Peri yet may be forgiven 
Who brings to this eternal gate 
The gift that is most dear to Heaven !” 

Go seek it, ’twill be sweet to open the gate of 
Heaven for pardon to her whose sin has been re- 
deemed.’ 

“Lighted earthward by a glance from the eyes of 
morning, the happy Peri sped on her downward flight. 

‘ Whither shall I go ? The casket of every gem on 
earth, I know, — such gifts as these are not for Heaven. 
The balmy breath of this fair land — its ocean flowing 
over beds of amber, — its mountains rich in imbedded 
gems, — its sandal groves and spice bowers — might have 
been a happy home for such as I. Now, alas ! her 
rivers are crimsoned with human blood, — the smell of 
death comes reeking from the bowers of spice, — and the 
fragrance of the flowers is tainted with the breath of 
murderous man.’ Looking downwards, — saddened — 
disconsolate — almost hopeless, — the Peri sees a youthful 


196 LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 

warrior standing alone upon the bank of his native 
river, — one arrow left — a red blade broken in his hand. 
‘ Live,’ the conqueror said, ‘ live to share these trophies 
and these crowns !’ The young warrior pointed silently 
to the waves crimsoned with his country’s blood, and 
for answer, sent to the invader’s heart the last arrow in 
his quiver. It reached him not — and the hero fell. 
The Peri descended swiftly on a ray of morning light, 
and caught the last, precious drop of his heart’s best 
blood. ‘ This is an offering worthy of my cause, — this 
shall be my gift at the gate of Heaven ! For a drop so 
pure as this, they will let me in !’ But, alas ! the crys- 
tal bar moved not, — the angel smiled upon the gift, but 
bade him seek something holier than even this. A 
second time, winging her flight earthward, towards the 
mountains of the Moon where the Nile is cradled, next 
she wandered. Tropic flower and fruit were basking 
there. Ruins and shrines told a story of departed 
glory; they were ‘the relics of a splendid dream.’ 
Upon this fair, still scene, the hot, deadly breath of 
pestilence had cast its foul, poisonous taint, blackening 
and withering every living thing it touched. The pest- 
house is rankling wi^ fetid breath — the unburied are 
sleeping in the moonlight — earth and air are rife with 
deadly pestilential vapors. 

“ A low moan the Peri hears, — it is from one — a youth 
who has crawled out here to die alone — with but one 
gladdening thought to give him comfort — she whom he 
loves is far away, safe from this foul midnight breath. 
But no ! she comes ! Her arms are about his neck, her 
kiss upon his lips, her warm breath against his livid 
face. He shrinks back from her embrace, — but she 


ADAIRS S FLOCK. 


197 


will not go — she loves him — dies with him. Softly- 
stealing the last breath of the departing spirit, the 
gentle Peri bent o’er the two, calmly keeping watch till 
their souls should waken. 

‘‘Another time the Peri is standing at the gate 
bearing love’s last sigh. She hears the crystal bells of. 
Eden ringing in the breeze — sees the angel smile — but, 
alas ! reads in his face that her hopes are vain. Even 
the precious sigh of pure, self-sacrificing love is not 
enough ! ‘ The crystal bar of Eden moved not,’ — and 

again the unhappy Peri, weary and sad, turns away 
her face from the gate of Heaven. The light of even- 
ing softly restf upon Syria’s land of roses ; the broad 
sun hangs over sainted Lebanon ; his head towering 
and whitening in wintry grandeur, while summer sleeps 
in a flowering valley warm and rosy at his feet. 

“ Cheered with the hope of finding some sealed 
tablet that, read with illqmined eyes, will teach her 
where, to find the boon she craves, the hapless Peri 
bends her flight towards the vale of Balbec. She sees 
a child at play, wild and rosy as the flowers with which 
he sports. She sees a man dismount from his hot 
steed and fling himself impatiently down to drink from 
a rustic fountain, near which the child — the boy tired 
of play — lay nestling ’mid the roses. The chimes of 
the vesper-bell are borne upon the evening air. The boy 
kneels upon the bed of flowers, lisping forth his infant 
praise. Memory is at its work in the dark chambers 
of guilt, — the past comes back to the worldly man — its 
strife — its crirnes — its years of silenced prayer. 

‘“There was a time, little child, when I was pure 
as thou — and happy, — now!’ He bent his head upon 


198 


LIFBS PROMISE TO FAY. 


his hand and wept. Blest token of a pardoned soul ! 
Heaven is ringing with the triumph of forgiveness. 

“When the sun had set, and they lingered on their 
knees — man and child, — a warm, rosy, tender light 
rested upon the tear that wet the cheek of the re- 
pentant sinner. The happy Peri knows more than 
was vouchsafed mortal — that the brightness was the 
angel’s smile thrown from Heaven’s gate to hail that 
tear. 


“ ‘ Joy ! joy ! forever ! my task is done, — 

The gates are pass’d and heaven is won ! 

Oh! Am I not happy? lam! lam!”' 

“Have you finished, Ruth?” Adair asked. 

“Yes, the story is done.” 

“Now let us see how many ideas you have ‘ nailed.’ 
I am afraid these little heads are full of floating images. 
Mary, tell us what you know of the Peri’s story,” turn- 
ing to a hard-featured child, whose face bore no trace 
of childish joys. The realms that her imagination 
peopled were bleak, drear, gloomy. 

“I am thinking of the hospitals full of yellow-fever 
patients. It must have been yellow-fever,” she an- 
swered, meekly. A roar of laughter from the children 
followed this grave declaration. 

“And you, Carrie?” Ruth said to another, a bright, 
sunny-faced girl of ten. 

“I think the angel was down-right mean not to let 
the Peri in the first time !” 

“What do you think, Maggie?” 

“I don’t think nothing ’bout it,” Maggie said, 
raising her head slowly from Ruth’s lap and looking 


ADAlR^S FLOCK. 


199 


round upon the assembled group. don’t know the 
story half as good now as I did at first. Don’t believe 
it’s the same Peri mamma told' me about. Miss Ruth 
talks mighty pretty, but it’s too ‘ high-falutin’ ’ for me. 
I got lost in them flowers and things, and now I’m 
mighty mixed.^^ 

The merriment was boisterous after this declaration. 

‘‘This is the verdict, Ruth ; Maggie has said it. But, 
Maggie, you are a most ungrammatical little Peri.” 

“ Miss Adair, I ain’t come to grammar yet.” 

“And grammar hasn’t come to you, Maggie.” 

“ Miss Ruth’s Peri story is a heap longer, an’ a heap 
mix' der, than mamma’s, but I ’spect it’s a heap prettier, 
too, if a body knew the meaning of all them big words ; 
but I don’t, and I kinder think I know most as much 
as the rest of ’em.” 

“You didn’t know the meaning of ^salutation,' and 
Miss Adair told us last week,” Nellie Nolan said, with 
an air of superior wisdom. 

“No she didn’t, either,” Maggie answered ; “ it was 
* salute' Miss Adair told us about, and ’taint the same 
word at all. One’s a heap longer ’n th’ other.” 

“No,” Nellie said, “it was ^salutation.' S-a-l-sal- 
u-salu-t-a-ta-t-i-o-n — salutation. A derivative word ; 
the root is ^salute,' and the suffix ^ tion.' Means, a 
greeting.” 

“Well, I don’t care,” Maggie answered, with a little 
shrug of the pretty shoulders, “I’d forgot, and I reckon 
everybody forgets sometimes.” 

“There’s the bell,” Adair said, “what does it say, 
children?” 

“ Silence and order !” they answered, as if with one 


200 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


voice. Others came in from play, filed into rank, and 
took their places. The room was soon well filled. 

I will stay and hear you teach,” Ruth said. ‘‘I may 
improve so much that by the next time I tell a story 
these little ones may understand me. To-day I’m afraid 
I went beyond them. I need teaching myself before I 
can begin to teach.” 

‘‘You have the qualifications necessary for success,” 
Adair answered. 

“What are they, Adair?” 

“Patience, — spirit tempered with gentleness, — 
judgment ” 

“Did you say ^judgment,' Adair?” 

“ I did say judgment.” 

“Oh, you overrate me, Adair.” 

“You underrate yourself.” 

At this moment the door opened, and a girl stood, 
flushed and trembling, before the school. Her figure 
was girlish in its proportions, — slight, flexile, unde- 
veloped. Her face was older, yet one knew it was not 
the weight of years that left upon her face that look of 
sweet, thoughtful gravity. Another had followed her 
into the room, and stood between her and Adair. 

“That girl has been insolent !” she said, in a voice 
weak and trembling with rage. “She has defied my 
authority! Command her to go back into my room, 
where she belongs I” 

Adair looked from one to the other, quickly compre- 
hending the situation. 

“I have no authority to command,” Adair said, 
mildly; “but I will advise the girl to do what is her 
duty, when she is cool enough to listen. She is angry 


ADAIRS S FLOCK. 


201 


now, and therefore not herself. Leave her tO’ me for 
the present, will you?” 

‘‘ I will, but she must ask my pardon before the 
school for her disgraceful conduct.” 

She will do whatever her duty requires, I am sure.” 

The teacher left the room. Adair walked towards 
the girl, asked her name, held her hand within her 
own, and gently drew her to a seat, bidding her in a 
few, kind words to remain until the pupils were all gone. 

^‘Now,” she said, when school was over, ^‘Evelyn, 
you may tell me what has caused this trouble.” 

will ! Miss McDowell, you are good and kind: 
I see it in your face. That is why I came to you. You 
will pity me, but she does not. She is hard and cruel. 
A month ago. Miss McDowell, I went home one day 
and found my father dying.” The girl held her breath 
to keep down a rising sob. It seemed to choke her. A 
look of pain came into her face. The very effort to be 
calm betrayed the resolution of her spirit. In a tremu- 
lous, excited tone she went on, — 

‘‘He died. Miss McDowell, and I was left alone, — 
entirely alone, — for when I returned to school, two 
weeks later, I found a stranger in my teacher’s place. 
It was the woman that you saw. I had always been 
called the best scholar in my class. I do not know if 
that be true ; but. Miss McDowell, I am not idle. I 
never was considered stupid. But when I came back I 
could not learn, though God knows how I tried. My 
memory seemed gone, — things do not stay with me as 
they did once, — but I cannot help it. Indeed it is not 
my fault ! That woman down-stairs. Miss Upton, she 
knows I study, — she sees me with my eyes bent upon my 

i8 


202 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


book all day long. The girls have told her .that I am 
not an idle scholar, and if she had any pity in -her 
nature she would help bring back the faculties that 
seem buried in my father’s grave.” She laid her heM 
upon her hands, and broke into long, deep sobs. “To- 
day,” she said, speaking again with an effort at self- 
control, — “to-day I could bear her taunts no longer, 
when, in presence of the school, she called me a stupid, 
idle dunce. I heard a roar in my brain — like that of 
thunder, — it silenced every other sound, — an electric 
flash blinded my vision. I had but one power left, — 
the power to confront and defy her. And I did. Miss 
McDowell. ‘You lie,’ I said, ‘I am ileither idle nor 
stupid, and you know it ! You say both because you 
hate me, and, in return, I hate you !’ ” 

“Ev^elyn,” Adair said, softly stroking the head of 
the excited girl, “ you did very wrong.” 

“I know it. Miss McDowell; I do not attempt to 
justify myself. I was wicked I know, but I will never 
go back into her room again, — never — never! She 
would not do me justice. I am all alone in this world, 
— am helpless, — poor, friendless, and self-dependent. 
I must not have my efforts hindered by narrow, cruel 
bigotry and harsh injustice. I know and feel that the 
power to learn will come back when—: — ’ ’ 

A quiver of the lip warned her to be silent. 

“What will you do then, Evelyn?” Adair asked. 

“ I will get an education — alone, — by my own effort 
— unaided — rather than seek the mite that she can give 
me. But there is a more advanced department in this 
school. I will study alone till I am prepared to enter 
it.” 


ADAIRS S FLOCK. 


203 

And I will help you,” Ruth said, stepping towards 
the girl and taking both hands in hers. 

Thank you. Miss De Harte,” the girl said, a grate- 
ful look breaking through her tears. I have seen you 
often, and I knew that you were good.” 

“ I am not good, Evelyn, but I will help you, if it be* 
possible, and it is possible.” 

“Can you come to see me to-morrow after school, 
Evelyn ?’ ’ Adair asked. ‘ ^ I shall await you here. In the 
mean time we — Ruth and I — will think about, and see 
what can be done.” 

“ Oh, thank you both ! Yes, I will come gladly. ” 

“I will arrange with Miss Upton to excuse you for 
the present.” 

“She must excuse me always,” Evelyn answered. “I 
have rebelled against her tyranny.” 

“She is a tyrant,’^ Adair said, when Evelyn had 
gone, “a mean, petty tyrant. I saw it in every line of 
her face. She has no knowledge of character, in the 
first place, else she would see that Evelyn Alcott is a 
treasure. Such perception in a girl is rare; and, did 
■you notice her head? Ideality, — sentiment, — combined 
with the qualities that make rare good sense. She will 
be a splendid woman educated under the right kind of 
influences. Misdirected, her moral nature would dwarf 
and shrivel. There is character in every line of her 
face, and honesty in the clear depths of her eye. She 
has spirit, — the spirit that, uncontrolled, would wreck 
her happiness. But will is there as strong, and good 
sense to dictate the means of self-control. ‘Wouldst 
thou distinguish fierce temper from spiritless dullness, 
— from cold simulation, — ask less what the temper than 


204 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


what the disposition.’ So says Bulwer, and Bulwer is 
right. Evelyn Alcott’s temper, properly governed, will 
give dignity to her character, — will repel rudeness, 
familiarity, — will insure her against contempt; and her 
disposition, softened, rounded, strengthened, will make 
of the girl a splendid woman.” 

‘‘ How^ do you know all this, Adair?” , 

“How do I know it? By intuition partly, by insight, 
by careful study and observation. It flashed upon me 
at first sight of the girl’s face, as she stood there trem- 
bling and defiant. My sympathies were with her be- 
fore she spoke one word. And what I did not see 
then, I learned afterwards, when I heard her tell the 
story without any attempt at self-justification. She is 
a noble girl. I told you, Ruth, that I loved children, 
and love, you know, gives insight.” 

“How long have you been teaching, Adair?” 

“Just one year; and I will tell you how it came 
about. My parents died when I was small, leaving 
me — their only child — to the care of my mother’s 
brother, a rich uncle, who is living now not far from 
Richmond, Virginia. He has three sons and two 
daughters, one of whom, Addie, is just my own age. 
My uncle educated me, gave me a home ; to him I owe 
everything in this life. He loves me tenderly as if I 
were his own child, and I love him with all a daughter’s 
love. My childhood and girlhood passed happily 
enough ; my wants were all supplied ; I had no thought 
or care of a future time, except that visions of a de- 
voted lover sometimes mingled with my dreams, and 
later,ra home which should be all my own') where 
poverty and want should never come,^here the light 


ADAIR'S FLOCK. 


205 


of love should cast a rosy glow around the little fire- 
sid^ Well, in course of time, one part of my dream 
was reached, — the lover came; but, Ruth, he wasn't 
at all the one my fancy had painted, and because he 
wasn’t,.! wouldn’t- have the home he offered me, nor 
the heart .either. Another came, and still another, — 
that was all, though, Ruth, — three instead of six, — two 
of them were said to be eligible matches : the more 
eligible they were, the less I cared for them, and so 
they went their way. By and by, I began to realize 
that I was living on my uncle’s bounty. I began to 
realize more; that I must marry or else be dependent. 
That thought galled me, Ruth. What ! sit with folded 
hands waiting for some man to ask me to be his wife, 
missing which, I must be forever dependent on my 
uncle’s bounty. I would not ! Marriage with me must 
be a choice, not a necessity. When once such thoughts 
as these find room, they leave no peace. I began to 
think, to look about, to wonder at the selfish exclusive- 
ness that shuts the door upon women. No wonder that 
the mental growth of woman, is dwarfed, nourished by 
such food as gossip, dress, nonsense, and weakened by 
idleness, late hours, and plotting. What could grow 
and flourish lacking healthy nutrition? The race is 
for a husband, and the girl who even stops to think 
that she may be endangering self-respect is left far 
behind. I had no lofty theories about self-renuncia- 
tion ; I was just a girl who loved attention and admira- 
tion as well as any other girl ; but marriage was not 
the aim and object of my life, — it should be more, — 
the consummation of my happiness. I have no liking 
for misery, Ruth, and while I can govern circumstances, 
18* 


2o6 lifers promise to pay. 

it and I shall be far apart. Thinking as I did, there 
was nothing left for me to do but seek the means of 
independence; teaching presented itself and pleased 
me, because of my love for children. My uncle re- 
monstrated at first, but I was firm. He is reasonable 
and good ; he thinks I will tire of the work and go 
home. Just now, I am very happy in my choice. 

I haven’t as many new dresses, nor as fine, as in the days 
of my bellehood, but the money that buys them is my 
own, and whatever is left over is mine too, to dispose 
of as I pleased I am neither a man-hater nor a marriage- 
hater : one is God’s noblest work, the other his most 
sacred institution ; I bow in devout reverence to Him, 
and accept his will in my regard ; if the one who 
figured in my dreams should ever come, I will bid him 
welcome ; if not, I may miss him, perhaps, but I shall 
not pine and mope. I may be an old maid, but surely 
never sour, envious, and wretched : nay, more, neither 
loveless nor joyless.” 

“Adair, you were made after Aunt Rachel’s model 
pattern ; I have heard her say almost those very words.” 

“Ruth, I shall be just such an old maid as Aunt 
Rachel, kind, loving, gentle. Is it not a ‘consumma- 
tion devoutly to be wished’ ?’•’ j 

“No^ Adair; for it came through- much sorrow.” 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 


207 


t 

i 

i 

. CHAPTER LI. 

V 

J A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 

i Gone — flitted away, 

Taken the stars from the night and 

f the sun from the day ! 

.. Gone, and a cloud in my heart and a 

storm in the air. 

* Flown to the east or the west, flitted 

I know not where. 

Tennyson. 

‘‘These are weary days after all, for I cannot but 
confess to my own heart that thought is not silenced, 
that memory does not even sleep. I do not admit 
illusions: they are false, deceitful, disappointing. I 
have not for months allowed myself the luxury of a 
day-dream: but night-dreams — ah! they avenge the 
wrongs of their banished sister. Can I help this? 
Every day the struggle is to be begun again, and I am 
tired ; I want rest from this pursuing shadow. But for 
Adair arid the thoughts with which she fills my mind 
I should — what ? Not die, — sorrow does not kill, — nor 
even sicken, nor droop, but I should repine some- 
times, — yes, often. There is a healthfulness of tone 
about the girl that acts upon me like a tonic. She 
will be here soon ; it is her holiday. I will await her 
among the flowers. Strange how that past time comes 


2o8 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


back to me to-day ! No, not strange, when I remember 
that so many of those golden days were such as this. 
The same light, flitting shadows, the same delicate sky- 
tints, the soft clouds melting away into brightness. 
The scene is fair, and, in the old-time, beauty such as 
this filled my soul with joy. 

“ Purple cloud, the hill-top binding. 

Folded hills, the valleys wind in, 

Valleys with fresh streams among you, 

Streams, with bosky trees along you. 

Trees, with many birds and blossoms, 

Birds, with music-trembling bosoms. 

Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe' you 
To your fellow-flowers beneath you. 

Flowers, that constellate on earth. 

Earth, that shakest to the mirth 
Of the merry Titan ocean. 

All his shining hair in motion. 

Why am I thus the only one 
Who can be. dark beneath the sun ?” 

‘‘Hear thy answer!” Adair’s voice said. She had 
entered from the side of the garden from which Ruth 
looked away, and noticing her abstracted air and 
manner, had “tip-toed” without being seen or heard 
to the spot where Ruth was standing. 


“ Because, O cloud, 
Pressing with thy crumpled shroud 
Heavily on mountain-top, — 

Hills, that almost seem to drop. 

Stricken with a misty death, 

To the valleys underneath, — 

Valleys sighing with the torrent, — 

Waters, streaked' with branches horrent, — 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 


209 


^ Branchless trees that shake your head 

Wildly o’er your blossoms spread 
Where the common flowers are found, — 

Flowers, with foreheads to the ground, — 

Ground that shriekest while the sea 
With his iron smiteth thee — 

I am, besides, the only one 

Who can be bright without the sun.” 

‘‘‘Look on that picture, Ruth, and then on this.'' 
Among all the elements of beauty that helped to make 
the fairness of the scene upon which you looked, you 
are ‘the only one who can be bright without the sun.’ 
Is there no joy in this? No cause for thankfulness?” 

“ Oh, yes, Adair !” 

“There is a keen sense of joy to-day in the very gift 
of life ; you should feel it, Ruth, — should be happy in 
it. You are intensely susceptible to the influences of 
beauty. I have often seen it in your face, but never 
so clearly as when I came upon you a moment ago. 

But you are Well, I don’t kngw how it is, nor what 

it is; I only think there can be no cause sufflcient to 
justify the sad, weary, almost hopeless look I have seen 
upon your face at times. It is as if ‘all things good 
had kept aloof’ from you.” 

“Adair,” Ruth answered, sadly. 


" All things good have not kept aloof, 
Nor wandered into other ways; 

I have not lacked thy mild reproof, 
Nor golden largess of thy praise. 
But life is full of weary days.” 


“ The last line falls from your lips like a hopeless wail, 
— a lament, — a funeral dirge. Come ! sadness and tears 


210 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY, 


must seek other quarters and more congenial compan- 
ions. I have had such glad thoughts as I walked over 
here to-day,! The very air is . joy-ifispiring. There 
is a soft, pensive beauty on the hills, the trees, resting 
in the valleys. Look about you, Ruth, and rejoice that 
God has blest you with the dear gift of life.' Not many 
days ago, I found a sweet little bit of poetry floating 
about in the magazines or papers; the lines come back 
to me to-day. Such a scene as this must have been the 
poet’s inspiration. It is not a dirge, Ruth, but a clear, 
bright, sunny picture, that comes up in vivid beauty as 
you read the lines. There is true stnse of poetry in 
the mind of the woman who wrote them. I should 
like to know her.” 

“Let me hear them, Adair, will you?” 

“ Of course, I will, because you must see the picture 
as I see it. 

‘“AFTERNOON. 

“ ' Small, shapeless drifts of cloud ' 

Sail slowly northward in the soft-lined sky, 

With blue half-tints and rolling summits bright 
By the late sun caressed ; slight hazes shroud 
All things afar ; shineth each leaf anigh 
With its own warmth and light. 

" ‘ O’erblown by Southland airs, 

The summer landscape basks in utter peace ; 

In hazy streams the lazy clouds are seen ; 

Low hills, broad meadows, and large, clear-cut squares 
, Of ripening corn-fields, rippled by the breeze 

With shifting shade and sheen. 

“ ‘ Hark ! and you may not hear 
A sound less soothing than the rustle cool 
Of swaying leaves, the steady, wiry drone 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 


211 


Of unseen crickets, sudden chirping clear 
Of happy birds, the trickle of the pool, 

Chafed by a single stone. 

“ ‘ What vague, delicious dreams, 

Born of this golden hour of afternoon 
And air balm-freighted, fill the soul with bliss ! 

Transpierced, like yonder clouds, with lustrous gleams, 
Fantastic, brief as they, and like them, spun 
Of gilded nothingness ! 

“ ‘ All things are well with her ! 

’Tis good to be alive, to see the light 
That plays upon the grass, to feel (and sigh 
With perfect pleasure) the mild breezes stir 
Among the garden roses, red and white. 

With whiffs of fragrancy. 

“ ‘ There is no troublous thought. 

No painful memory, no grave regret. 

To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour; 

The soul, at peace, reflects the peace without. 

Forgetting grief as sunset skies forget 
The morning’s transient shower.’ 

Isn’t that a summer scene, fresh and fair, and sweet 
to look upon ? Such a one as this, nothing lacking for 
the completeness of its beauty, save 

“ ‘ The trickle of the pool 
Chafed by a single stone.’ ” 

“The words themselves suggest the picture,” Ruth 
said. 

“ Yes, there is music in the lines.” 

“More than music.” 

“ What more, Ruth ?” 

“Poetry.” 

“There is poetry in music.” 


212 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


‘^And more than music in poetry; at least, to me. 
‘ Music,’ says Cousin, ^ is an art without a rival ; how- 
ever, it is not the first of arts. The one that sur- 
passes all others, because it is incomparably the most 
expressive, is poetry. A beautiful picture, a noble 
melody, a living and expressive statue, gives rise to 
the exclamation. How poetical ! This is not an arbi- 
trary comparison ; it is a natural judgmerU: which 
makes poetry the type of the perfection of all the arts, 
— the art par excellence ^ — which comprises all others, 
to which they aspire, and which none can reach.’ ” 

“ Cousin is kind to you, Ruth ; his words have 
brought a delicate rose to your cheek.” 

*‘It was poetry that brought it there, not Cousin.” 

“Oh well! Let Whoever will, claim the credit; I 
care not, so the roses be there. Come and let Father 
Neptune deepen the tints ; it may be, that he is just 
now ‘distilling the needed elixir.’ You have your 
hat, so have I mine ; let us go. I have not had a sight 
of the sea for days, except the little glimpse of blue we 
get from this spot. Let us go nearer, and Ruth, just a 
hint for you. Let 

“ ' there be no troublous thought, 

No painful memory, no grave regret. 

To mar the sweet suggestions of the hour.’ ” 

“I had a pleasant thought just then, Adair.” 

“What was it?” 

“I wasjg^turing Neptune.” 

“ Well,^ whom does he resemble?” 

“ He resembles no one. He is just himself — like no 
one else ‘ in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 


213 


in the water under the earth.’ I see him at early 
morn ; the sun is just rising ; the whole sea breaks 
into rosy sparkles ; it dances in an ecstasy of joy ; 
the morn is here ; the ocean-king comes. See ! there 
he is ! in the wake of the sunrise, floating in * nebu- 
lous gold;’ dolphins bear on his chariot through an 
opalescent path. Neptune is enthroned amid the soft 
light of the rose-lined shell, a crown of pearls upon 
his head, a coral trident in his hand ; his robings 
are of green — delicate sea-green ; foam-wreathed tri- 
tons sport about him ; Amphitrite is at his side, clad 
in silver whiteness ; a veil, sparkling as ocean-drops, 
covers her golden hair ; a zone, bright as the morning 
star, shines amid the fleecy folds of her robe : her 
face is tenderly benignant ; his, full of majestic pride. 
Ocean pays courtly homage to the greatness of his 
majesty; every ocean-shell, and cave, and sea-depth, 
has sent an envoy out to meet the king. They are 
loving and loyal. He hears and smiles, bidding them 
be happy ; winds and storms are banished ; they shall 
not disturb a happy realm to-day, and see, they do not,” 
Ruth said, looking out upon the ocean-waves like “ tos- 
sing banks of green light.” She stood a moment, 
silently watching the scene; then with a motion that 
seemed mechanical, her parasol traced a letter in the 
sand. Adair, with deepening interest, watched her 
face, settling into pensive beauty. The warm glow was 
gone, and in its stead a dreamy look had come. 

‘‘The letter L,” Adair said, watching the repeated 
tracing of the self-same letter. 

The tone aroused Ruth ; she looked up with surprise ; 
a flush swept into her face. Adair smiled. 

19 


214 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


“It was of Miss Ingelow’s ‘Letter L/ I spoke, 
Ruth.” 

“I was not thinking of that ‘Letter L,’ Adair.” 

“I supposed not; but of another — your own.” 

“ Yes — my own.” 

“ She stood to gaze, perhaps to sigh, 

Perhaps to think ; but who can tell, 

How heavy on her heart must lie 
The letter L?” 


CHAPTER LII. 

GONE TO PROTEST. 


We should count time by heart-throbs. 

Baii-ey. 

The world looked unreal, shadow-like, seen through 
“ the mists and dewy gray of twilight.” Day’s crystal 
clearness had settled into foreshadowing gloom ; the 
sunset had mingled rain-tints with its hues. Heavy 
shadows fell upon the landscape, diminishing the gray 
light day had left behind. Darkness “bosomed the 
hills.” A wind arose; another followed; a third 
sighed and sobbed amid trees of “sullen outline.” 
Rain-clouds drooped heavily earthward ; drops fell in 
drops at first, then in slanting sheets. The night was 
wild and stormy. 

“The elements have kindly decided in my favpr, 
Adair. You must 'sXd.y now.” 


GONE TO PROTEST. 


2^5 

^‘Yes, or encounter wind, rain, and darkness, and 
that I am not disposed to do.” 
like rainy nights, Adair.” 

And I do not.” 

‘‘Why?” 

“Because night is the time for peaceful contempla- 
tion. All reposeful scenes favor the meditative muse; 
who can follow a quiet train of thought amid such 
sounds and sights as these ?” 

“ They beget defiance, though, and that brings satis- 
faction.” 

“Defiance of what, Ruth?” 

“Of the elements — nature — life — destiny — every- 
thing.” 

“ What is that you say, Ruth?” Aunt Rachel spoke. 

“ I am talking nonsense. Aunt Rachel. ” 

“Irreverent nonsense. By destiny, you mean 
Providence. Is it so, Ruth?” 

“I don’t know just what I do mean. Aunt Rachel; 
certainly no irreverence, though. I only know — no, I 
don’t : let’s talk of other things — of our protege — 
Adair’s and mine — Evelyn Alcott. How is she pro- 
gressing, Adair? You know, I have not seen her for a 
week or more.” 

“ She is improving, slowly though. The girl’s men- 
tal faculties seem paralyzed. By fall, I hope she may 
be prepared for a higher department. Nothing could 
induce her to entertain the thought of returning to 
Miss Upton’s charge, and I do not wonder. She loves 
knowledge for its own sake — she will be a scholar. 
Miss Grey,” she said, speaking to Aunt Rachel, “ I have 
often wondered why it is that girls who are brilliant at 


2i6 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


school seldom realize the promise of their school-life. 
Among my own class-companions, not one has ad- 
vanced a step in mental growth since society began to 
dawn upon her. It is most strange that the love of 
study should end with a girl’s term of years at school. 
Why is it ? Do you know ?’ ’ 

‘‘ That very question bewildered me; the problem 
seemed difficult of solution, but the key made its mys- 
teries clear and simple. Do you know. Miss Mc- 
Dowell, that real, genuine, earnest love of study is the 
most rare of all the incentives in the pursuit of knowl- 
edge? I mean, knowledge in its most limited sense — 
the morsel that a student strives to gain, not to ap- 
pease the cravings of hunger, but for another purpose, 
of which I will tell you. Approbativeness is, I believe, 
of all the constituent elements of human nature, the 
one most common to character; in a greater or less 
degree, each one of us is influenced by its promptings. 
The school-room is, perhaps, the place for its fullest 
development ; there, no matter how diverse and varied 
the characteristics, how dissimilar the tastes, yet there 
is enough common to each one to be allured by the 
pleasing prospect of approbation. A pupil pores over 
a book till her eyes are weary, wishing no other reward 
than a little meed of praise — -in the form of an approv- 
ing smile from one, or envious glances from another ; 
for even the last is distorted into unwilling praise by 
the process which approbativeness uses for the manu- 
facture of its selfish delights. This one element — the 
love of praise — is the material of which good scholars 
— so to speak— are manufactured. To do better than 
the next one — to obtain the prize, to gain the first 


GONE TO PROTEST. 


217 


honor — this is the food — the bread and meat — upon 
which vanity and self-love are fed. Such teaching is 
baneful, destructive to the growth of all that is good, 
because approbativeness alone is fed and nurtured, ab- 
sorbing for its rapid, untrained growth all the nutritious, 
life-giving juices that were intended for a more equal and 
judicious distribution. Do teachers ever think of this? 
Do they even know that, by such means, they foster 
the growth of evil passions — of vanity; hatred, envy? 
There are time and energy expended in the work of 
education sufficient for the accomplishment of great 
results, yet great results are not accomplished, simply 
because the means are misdirected. Remember this. 
Miss McDowell ; you are a teacher : remember more — 
that the individual who, in the office of teaching, di- 
rects one good taste in the right direction, does more 
for the development of character than all those who 
are blindly seeking what can never be attained through 
narrow, selfish means. Teachers do not know this. 
Theirs is not voluntary ignorance ; they do not stop to 
think : until they do, the love of approbation must be 
the chief means, and a narrow, circumscribed text- 
book information the chief result, of their honest but 
ill-spent labor.” 

“Is this true in every case. Miss Grey? Are there 
no exceptions?” Adair asked. 

“ No, not in every case, my child. There are teach- 
ers — and not a few— to whom love gives insight ; they 
are the ‘spiritual muses’ to whom the hungry soul 
looks up and is satisfied. And even in the mental 
destitution surrounding the less fortunate — those com- 
mitted to the care of Approbatio7t Cultivators — there 
19* 


2I8 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


will be some true lovers of knowledge, -stretching out 
eager hands for help, looking up with searching eyes 
into the vast sky for light to lead them on, hungry for 
books, thirsting for knowledge, aglow with love of it 
for its own sweet sake. ’ ’ 

‘‘But, Miss Grey, there must be something more 
than approbativeness to stimulate the rest — the im- 
mense class that are not the true seekers after knowl- 
edge ; else, the same cause would operate, though less 
powerfully, perhaps, till the end of life.” 

“ It does operate as powerfully, but in another chan- 
nel. When girls leave school, the race is not for knowl- 
edge, but for husbands. The means are dress instead 
of books. All the time and energy spent upon the ac- 
complishment of difficult tasks, are now devoted — not 
as systematically, perhaps, but as indefatigably — to the 
acquirement of personal graces, to charms of manner, 
to attractions of face and form. Approbativeness was 
fostered in the beginning ; it is a hardy growth now, 
outliving the frosts of disappointment, and supplying 
by the careful training of a skillful hand whatever out- 
side influences are denied it. Self-love is the hot- 
house in which its growth is forced.” 

“ Then, Miss Grey, all the girls who live for fashion 
are of this number; is it so? 

“No, Miss McDowell; many — a great many — drink 
the tonic of approbativeness administered them as an 
appetizer of knowledge, and, in its drinking, acquire 
not a temporary hunger, but a genuine, hearty relish 
for the food so sparingly given. I advocate no system 
of stern asceticism for girls : while the ‘ rainbow is in 
their sky’ I would have them enjoy its beauty ; but I 


GONE TO PROTEST, 


219 


grieve for the mental dearth which follows after a ripe 
harvest of pleasure, when youth is gone with all its 
charms, leaving nothing to fill its place. How many 
lonely lives are spent unfilled by the good, satisfying 
things that knowledge brings ! Nay, more, how many 
unhappy women live their lives out lamenting the ab- 
sence of an earnest, albabsorbing work which would 
help ‘ to stem and keep down anguish, force them to be 
employed, forbid them to brood, and chequer their lives, 
here and there, with gleams of satisfaction !’ ” 

‘‘You are a wise mentor. Miss Grey: I shall seek 
your counsel often,” Adair said. 

“To such as I can give you are welcome, child; 
stray sheaves picked up here and there in the field of 
observation, not gathered from experience,” she an- 
swered, rising to leave the room. 

‘ ‘ How happy you must be, Ruth, to have such a 
guide and counselor !” 

“Yes, I should be happy; and yet, Adair, my will 
rebels against hers terribly. I am not grateful nor do- 
cile. How the wind blows ! Listen ! I am reminded of 
another night, more than a year ago. Just such a one 
as this. The next morning, while tying up my vines 
outside the door, a stranger came up and spoke to me, 
remaining a few minutes only, yet I have not for- 
■ gotten him, — I never can forget him, — so many, many 
times his words come back to me ; they seem fraught 
with a meaning so deep and full.” 

“ What were the significant words, Ruth ?” 

“Oh, I was childish, Adair, and foolish, too: I 
made a vain boast, — told him life had given me its 
promise to pay !” 


220 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. ' 


‘‘And he ” 

“ He said, ‘ If we should ever meet again in this life, 
may you be able to say to me, ‘ Full value received ” 
“ Has not life, so far, redeemed its promise to pay?” 
“No, Adair; it has gone to protest !” 

“ Is your debtor bankrupt ?” 

“Yes; a hopeless bankrupt!” Ruth answered, 
smiling sadly. 


CHAPTER LIIL 

LENGTHENING SHADOWS. 

Fellow, begone ! I cannot brook thy sight ; this news 
hath made thee a most ugly man. 

Shakspeare. 

A LETTER from Mayne Snowden one day brought no 
gladness in its folds. 

“ If you were here to-night, my little Ruth,” it said, 
“ how much we should have to talk about, how many 
mutual confidences to exchange : for I doubt not your 
life is not less eventful now than when you were at 
Gloaming Grange. It is a desolate place, not only by 
reason of your absence, but because Fred’s joyousness 
has taken flight. Poor Fred L how could you so reward 
him ? The whole neighborhood knows his disappoint- 
ment and deplores it. I seek in vain to comfort him ; 
he will not be comforted. 


LENGTHENING SHADOWS. 


221 


“A word about myself, and only a word, since my 
time is scarcely at my own disposal these busy days. 
As you will see from the heading of this letter, I am at 
present in our great metropolitan city. What doing, 
think you ? It is of this that I would write. The truth 
is, Ruth dearest, I am engaged in that most delightful 
of all feminine occupations, the selection of a trous- 
seau, — one in which orange-blossoms will play a not 
unimportant part. As I am to go abroad just after the 
wedding, it is decided that my trousseau shall be both 
elaborate and extensive. How I wish you were here, 
to help me enjoy shopping in this immense city ! 
Indeed, it is a real delight, Ruth. Such treasures of 
lace as are unfolded for me to look at daily ! such ex- 
quisite tints in silk and velvet ! such beautiful designs 
in everything ! And the jewels ! they are positively 
enrapturing. • Mamma is buying my household silver, 
and having it marked simply ‘L.’ I am to begin 
housekeeping immediately after my return from abroad, 
and my home will be here — even here — in this great 
New York. You must come and visit me, Ruth : 
won’t it be delightful ! What pains I shall take to have 
you enjoy your visit ! we will go together to Gloaming 
Grange ; perhaps, by that time, you may relent. Poor 
Fred^! 

“ Taking unto myself the earnest congratulations 
whichy I am sure, you would offer, could you be here 
to-night, I am still your loving friend, 

“Mayne Snowden.” 

The letter enclosed a scrap from a daily paper, — a 
personal of a few words, — “Among the names booked 


222 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


for the next trip of the Pacific is that of our young 
friend, Lester Lockhart, who. Dame Rumor whispers, 
goes not alone. We wish him joy !” 

Poor Ruth ! 

“ Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 

Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not 
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 

And, then, we women cannot choose our lot. 

“ Much must be borne which it is hard to bear, 

'Much given away which it were sweet to keep. 

God help us all ! who need, indeed. His care; 

And yet I know the Shepherd loves His sheep. 

5-5 iif '% ^ ei:- 

“ We are all changed. God judges for us best, 

God helps us do our duty and not shrink. 

And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. 

( “ But blame us women not, if some appear 

Too cold at times, and some too gay and light. 

Some griefs gnaw deep, some woes are hard to bear. 

Who knows the past ? And who can judge us right ? 

" Ah, were we judged by what we might have been. 

And not by what^e are — 

In Heaven we shall know all." 



» 


BOOK V. 

GARNERED. 

" Suffer both to grow until the harvest, and in the time of the harvest 
I will say to the reapers, Gather up first the cockle, and bind it into 
bundles to burn ; but the wheat gather ye into my barn.” 


CHAPTER LIV. 

LESTER Lockhart’s letter. 

She is called our Lady of Sighs. ... In the very highest ranks of 
man she finds chapels of her own ; and even inglorious England there 
are some that to the world carry their heads as proudly as the rein- 
deer, who yet secretly have received her mark upon their foreheads. 

De QUINCEY. 

^ A CROWD,’ Fred, says Bacon, ‘ is not company, and 
faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tink- 
ling cymbal, where there is no love. The Latin adage 
meeteth it a little: Magna civiicK, magna soHtudo.' 

London, with its wonders of the past and present, is 
my abiding-place, Fred; London, with its cloud of fog 
and mist, always rising, always descending, always 
settling, n^ver dissolving ; London, whose mighty arms 
reach out to clutch in its giant fingers the hard glitter- 
ing substance for which men yearn and toil ; London, 
looking down through a veil of gray upon so much weal 
and so much woe, casting the shadow of its greatness 
upon far-off places, viewing in haughty splendor meaner 
belongings, smiling upon the rich, fawning upon the 

223 


224 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


great; London, whose tall, tapering spires rise like a 
‘visible prayer;’ whose stately homes shelter London’s 
pride ; whose ‘ dark-flowing river’ belches up from its foul 
stomach a load of ‘ muddy impurity’ for the wretched 
anglers striving, pushing, gloating over the sight of 
noisome filth and slime. That same dark river hides 
within its bosom the story of miserable lives and mys- 
terious deaths. London, with its bridges where the 
stream of human life has often ‘ heaved its last billows.’ 
London, with its towers and palaces and courts, its 
abbeys and great cathedral churches, and another Lon- 
don in filth and rags, its stifling, narrow holes fetid 
with rottenness, its squalid, wretched hovels foul with 
disease, filled with moans of despair, sobs of misery, i 
groans of the dying, pale, wasted, care-lined faces of 
the dead. London, with its stir and bustle and strife, j 
the ever-warring man against man, in contrast with | 
London’s quiet resting-places where the ‘dreamless | 
sleepers’ lie. London of to-day, arrayed in the gor- 
geous robes of pomp and pride and glory, side by side 
with the London that sleeps in the darkness of mould- j 
ering grandeur. This, Fred, is the London in which | 
I dwell. Would you know more, come and join me; | 
and, in very truth, that is what I should like to have i 
you do just now on my own account, remembering that j 
aforesaid adage says, ‘A great city, a great solitude.’ i 
Away from London to-morrow, and througft England, | 
where | 

‘ All the fields i 

Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay -like ; j 

The hills are crumpled plains ; the plains, parterres ; 

The trees, round, woolly, ready to be chipped ; 

And, if you seek for any wilderness, 


LESTER LOCKHART^ S LETTER. 


225 


You find, at best, a park. A nature tamed 
And grown domestic like a barn-cioor fowl. 

Which does not awe you with its claws and beak, 

Nor tempt you to an eyrie too high up. 

But which, in cackling, sets you thinking of 
Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast, in the pause 
Of finer meditation.’ 

Such is the England I would have you see with me. 
Mrs. Browning’s lines are aglow with life and beauty. 
England’s ‘crumpled plains’ rose before me when I 
heard them read by a voice we both knew well in those 
unforgotten days at Gloaming Grange. She was fond 
of Mrs. Browning, and, Fred, we were fond of her. 
Tell me something of her when you write, if it be only 
where and how she is. 

“ History and romance invest these countries of the 
Old World with mysterious charms, heightened by the 
glamour of distance. Tradition weaves about them a 
web of legendary lore ; the dim, shadowy past sleeps 
in the silence and solitude of mouldering ruins. There 
is boundless empire for reflection in the historic associa- 
tions which cluster round the famous places of these 
lands. Fancy has a wide domain amid the relics of 
departed greatness. The holy spots and consecrated 
places, the old cathedral aisles, dark, dim, and shadowy, 
are fraught with meditative lessons. The historian reads 
here a record written in the blood of nations. The 
artist and the poet are in the presence of 

‘ The grand old masters and the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo down the corridor of time.’ 

But for the man of to-day give me our own land, 
young in art, it is true, but resolute and daring in pur- 


226 


LIFERS. PROMISE TO PA K 


pose, and with a wealth of energy to bear her out. Pos- 
sessing within her wide and magnificent domain all the 
elements of greatness, what shall stop her on the forward 
march ? . » 

^‘Two weeks ago in Holland! Fred, I tell you 
those hardy Netherlanders are^a great people. Thrifty, 
industrious, and enterprising, their little kingdom, 
though possessing few natural adyantages, teems with 
the products of their industry. Turning away the sea 
from their very door, they have trained the mighty 
monster to do their bidding: in times of peace their 
servant, bearing upon its bosom the exports that con- 
stitute their wealth ; in war their powerful ally, turning 
its waters upon the foe at the bidding of its master. 
The practical pursuits of these busy people thoroughly 
arouse me from the dream of rest in which my faculties 
— if I have any — have too long slumbered. I must 
‘ be up and doing, with a heart for any fate.’ 

“ And though Fame may never hold forth the prom- 
ise of greatness to me as to some one else I know, yet, 
still, I must ‘be up and doing.’ So, Fred, authorship 
is your destiny. And what a destiny 1 What ^happiness 

' To sit alone 

And think, for comfort, how that very night 
Affianced lovers, leaning face to face. 

With sweet half-listenings for each other’s breath, 

Are reading haply from some page of ours. 

To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks had touched, 

When such a stanza, level to their mood. 

Seems floating their own thoughts out — “ So I feel 
For thee" — “And I, for thee! this poet knows 
What everlasting ^lo^ is !’_’ ’ 

“ The woman-poet again, Fred ! Yet. I have never 


IMPERATIVE DEMANDS. 


227 


read her poetry. So much stays with me from another 
time. Does it stay with you as well ? . . . Why do 
not men read women’s books ? Is it from a remote 
kinship to the feeling ^ that he cannot love a woman 
so well when he sees a certain greatness in her, nature 
having intended greatness for men? But nature has 
sometimes made sad oversights in carrying out her in- 
tention.’ A hint, Fred, and I am done. Deal with 
present times and people. 

‘ I do distrust the poet who discerns 
No character or glory in his times!’ 

Whence came your vocation ? Be prepared to an- 
swer this question satisfactorily when next you meet 

Lester Lockhart.” 


CHAPTER LV. 

s 

IMPERATIVE DEMANDS. ‘ . 

Look in thy heart and write. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 

That we are not so great a failure as others of whom 
we know — our next-door neighbor, perhaps — is often, 
in a great measure, due to mixed conditions,” which 
we, in our vain conceit, blindly ignore. The man who 
^Mias greatness thrust upon him” accepts the greatness 
as his portion, with -no look or smile of acknowledg- 
ment towards the chance that brought it. A self-satis- 


228 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


fying consciousness of merit cancels every obligation to 
pay, and makes the score even. Thankfulness for the 
fortunate events that shape our lives-into happy ones is 
not coin current in human nature, and destiny must be 
content to traffic in our own wares, taking in exchange 
for its commodities that which we have to give, — or 
nothing. Now, it is clear that no consciousness of un- 
worthiness is stamped upon the human metal, and if, 
in its stead, the man of fortunate gifts thinks to pay 
back in coin of another quality, shall we question its 
genuineness, pronounce it spurious, and endorse with 
our approbation the withdrawal of the happy gift? It 
is a question of vital interest, — one that nearly and in- 
timately concerns us, — therefore, ye judge and jury, we 
pronounce ourselves “not guilty” of any intent to ob- 
tain goods under “false pretenses.” 

Man thinks himself entitled to all he gets, and think- 
ing makes him so in his own eyes. Let us not class 
among the dealers in false coin those human beings 
who owe the full development of their faculties to 
some happy chance, some fortunate circumstance, 
though it be disguised under the form of a crushing, 
all-absorbing sorrow. The absence of these sorrows 
would take away much from the record of great names 
that gives us joy. They are blessings in disguise to 
those upon whom they come ; they are revealed bless- 
ings to those who follow. 

“After all, people may really have in them some 
vocation which is not quite plain to themselves, may 
they not ? . They may seem idle and weak because 
they are growing.” Even though an unlooked-for cir- 
cumstance defines its form and points out the means 


IMPERATIVE EE A/A IVES. 


229 


for its development, yet the vocation is there all the 
same, and the strength to work it out. ^‘Some happy 
talent and some fortunate opportunity may form the 
two sides of the ladder, on which some men mount; 
but the rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to 
stand wear and tear, and there is no substitute for 
thorough-going, ardent, and sincere earnestness.” 

Whether or not Fred Von Arsdel, even at this later 
date in his life, would place to the credit of ^‘fortunate 
circumstance” the causes which determined his voca- 
tion, remains to be seen. It is certain that no subtle 
analysis of motives and actions found a place in his 
thoughts in tho early time of his first disappointment. 
The result reached was not the clearly-deduced conclu- 
sion of a logical argument. A desire to escape the 
sight of visions whose presence brought only sorrow 
was the mainspring that set in motion all the latent 
faculties of his being, and when he began to concen- 
trate his energies in the accomplishment of a new- 
found work, it was only in defiance of a tormenting 
host oFmemories. These memories were not foes to be 
driven and scattered at one swoop; and so it was that 
Fred found himself, week after week and month after 
month, working with a resolution and earnestness of 
purpose before unknown to him. One idea fathered 
another, perception quickened, reason began to sift 
and assort an incongruous mass of vague ideas ; mem- 
ories, dreams, and visions, asked for shape and sub- 
stance; ideas grew and multiplied in the prolific soil of 
thought; airy, flitting shadows in the chambers of 
memory, and light fantastic shapes in the realms of 
imagination, left their ideal worlds, and demanded 
20* 


230 


LIFERS PROMISE TO FAY. 


places in the real. He wrote at first because he would 
he wrote at last because he must. 

Thus lived he now, who till now, — 

“ Had reached to freedom, not to action lived, 

But lived as one entranced with thoughts, not aims — 
Whom love had unmade from a common man. 

But not completed to an uncommon man.” 

” The artist’s part is both to be and do. 

Transfixing with a special, central power. 

The flat experience of the common man. 

And turning outward, with a sudden wrench, 

Half agony, half ecstasy, the thing 
He feels the inmost : never felt the loss. 

Because he sings it.” 

” To have our books 
Appraised by love, associated with love. 

While we sit loveless ! Is it hard, you think ? 

At least, ’tis mournful.”. 


MOTHEJ^ AND SON. 


231 


CHAPTER LVI. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

Better far 

Pursue a frivolous trade by serious means 
Than a sublime art frivolously. • 

Mrs. Browning. 

The forests weye aglow: vivid colors deepened every 
outline. The world was curtained by a mellow haze. 
It was a day to lock the door and turn the key upon 
narrowing griefs ! To bo brought closer, by contem- 
plation, to Him whose gift the sunshine is ! The mind, 
weakened and contracted by the narrow range which 
takes away from its height and breadth and depth, is 
lifted into a new sphere of thought ; its best aims are 
given a fresh impetus by the influence of a day such as 
that which lent a golden shimmer to the trees and 
flowers of Gloaming Grange towards the close of a 
brilliant autumn. There was no rush of joy, but a 
sense of all-pervading peace ; not a flood of sunshine 
in the world around, but plenteous streams of soft, 
golden light. 

Dismiss the thought to-day, my son,” Mrs. Von 
Arsdel said, “ and enjoy the fairness of the scene. 
The autumn is almost spent. These radiant tints 
are like the hectic flush; they are the harbingers of 
decay!” 

Mother, I cannot ; nor will I try, until you have 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


232 

given me the promise I desire. Why should you re- 
main here during the long, dreary months of the com- 
ing winter ? You need a milder climate: I see it more 
and more every cold day that comes. Last winter I 
feared that the severe winds would bring you death ; 
you .have less strength to bear them now. I see it in 
your face. Mother, you must go !” 

And you ?” 
will go with you.” 

Where?” 

Where you desire.” 

Even to see Ruth ?” 

Even to see Ruth !” 

I would not have you go, Fred.” 

But I will, mother ! .What am I not strong enough 
to bear?” 

“The sight of Ruth’s sorrow.” 

“ Her sorrow, did you say, mother ?” 

“Yes, Fred; she loved Lester Lockhart.” 

“ And he loved her !” 

“But they are separated.” 

“ For a time — yes.” 

“ Forever, Fred !” 

“ Great God ! through whom or what ?” 

“ Through false devotion to duty.” 

To whom owes she such a duty?” 

“ Her Aunt Rachel. Many years ago, Lester’s 
father and Rachel Grey were more than friends ; cir- 
cumstances parted them — they became estranged ; she 
blamed him bitterly, and now demands this sacrifice 
of Ruth for what she thinks will be Ruth’s own hap- 
piness.” 


MOTHER AND SON 


233 


‘‘ Can such things be ?” 

“They can and are. Fred, I will be honest with 
you. I have had a thought — one that, for its success, 
requires that I should see Rachel Grey. I half promised 
Ruth that I would visit her. Rachel has written several 
times, insisting that I go. I have been tempted — it 
was only the thought of you, my son ” 

“That thought shall not keep you here. I will go, 
too, remaining there a few days. I have business 
farther south, in New Orleans. Lester will return that 
way. I shall meet him there. Towards spring I shall 
return for you, bringing bach the same mother I used 
to know well and happy,— the one whose ghost would, 

. if left to itself, try to weather the storms of a bitter 
I winter. But she must not. I have other plans for 
j her.” 

“ And your books ?” 

j “ Let them rest ; they need it : they will like me all 
I the better when I return, mother.” 

; “Shall you like them all the better, think you, 
I Fred?” 

j “I shall never love them less, mother, — of that you 
|! may be sure. ‘Wrong thoughts make poor poems.’ 
j I must turn them out to make room for better ones, lest 
I should write ‘false poems, like the rest,’ and think 
‘them’ true, because myself was true in writing them.’ 
Let me cast away false ideas and learn to think truly ; 
then will thought become living work.” 

“ And you would see Ruth again ?” 

“I would ! It will strengthen me. I shall be sure 
of myself. I never can be until I have seen her again. 
The sight of her face is what we both need. Let us go. ” 


234 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


‘^When?” 

“With the first biting wind that comes across the 
lake.” 

“ That will not be late.” 

“ Soon or late, we must go. Be ready !” 


CHAPTER EVIL 

A PARADOX IN CHARACTER. 

No author ever drew a character consistent to human nature but 
what he was forced to ascribe to it many inconsistencies. 

Bulwer." 

Fred had gathered strength as he went on the new 
way ; he remembered nothing now except the desire 
•that stifled all others, — that of seeing his mother’s 
strength restored. A chilling fear of an unnamed 
grief that the winter might bring gave energy to the 
resolution which had shaped itself in his mind during 
the last few days. Fred’s nature was of the impressible 
kind ; but his moods gave color to every impression, 
whether it came from “ wafts of balm,” from “new- 
cut hay,” or the quiet and subtle perfume of the violet. 
Hope predominated; hence it was that his intense 
susceptibilities were oftenest a well-spring of pure de- 
light. There had been one time in his life when that 
very hopefulness led to a misinterpretation, followed 
by results that had tinged the brightness of his life with 
dark shades ; but bitter experiences are the price we pay 


A PARADOX IN CHARACTER. 


235 

for knowledge, and, if it helps us, the price we pay is 
not a dear one after all. 

“ Trifles light as air” bore an undue significance to 
a mind whose active and ardent imagination made good 
all deficiencies: seen from his own point of view and 
interpreted in a language all his own, suggestive signs 
were to him the foundation on which to build his hopes, 
it was this peculiarity of his mental make which caused 
him to interpret the signs rightly in Ruth’s regard, 
but in the wrong direction. Ruth loved, but it was 
Lester Lockhart she loved. The awakening which 
aroused him to a sense of his mistake was not an easy 
nor a pleasant one. Bitter lessons, they tell us, are 
best remembered : perh^s ; but do they sharpen the 
mental vision, or help to make provision for contin- 
gencies of a like nature in the future ? 

We cannot walk through this world with open eyes 
and fail to see that what makes individual character is 
the acting out of individual natures, and Fred’s was no 
exceptional case. A restraint imposed may keep in 
check, or subdue, perhaps, but not remove. Qualities 
of heart, either good or bad, are not eradicable ; they 
are simply made of elastic material : under heavy pres- 
sure they may be forced into small compass ; remove 
it, and they rebound. 

Shall we stigmatize as faulty that life-giving spirit 
which lends the freshness and brightness of morning to 
our midnight dreams? Whatever takes away from 
strength adds to. weakness: whatever tended to help 
Fred misinterpret signs in his own favor tended also 
to becloud his judgment, even though it were the bright 
spirit of Hope herself. Fred saw wherein he had 


236 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


erred, and recognized among the visions that had 
cheated him the overshadowing form of a giant whom, 
for want of a better name, we shall call Ego.'' Mind, 
there was not a selfish chord in his nature, nor an un- 
generous fibre ; but, among all the essences of his 
mental organization, there was one more subtle than 
the rest, and it floated towards a confident belief in 
self. 

Energy and Ability, with two such allies as Self-con- 
fidence and Hope, might achieve great results in life, 
but the two last sadly needed discipline, and the first 
of all had only recently appeared upon the scene ; so 
it is early, in the contest, and if Fred should disappoint 
the hero-seeker, let him remember that he is young 
and human. Just now his mother fills his thoughts, and 
the subject is all-absorbing. There are no misinter- 
pretations now, for a feeling stronger than those we 
have seen gives a truer insight. The deepening lines 
upon the face, the darkening circles around the eyes, 
told a story that admitted of but one construction, and 
however much the son would have cheated himself into 
the belief that these were but the forerunners of age, 
yet the indications of incipient disease were too 
strongly marked to admit of doubt, and the son’s 
vision was too clear to shut out facts that concerned 
his mother so nearly and deeply. 

Their plans were perfected, and early in December 
found them in the ^Mand of the flowers and the sun.” 


WINTER SUNSHINE. 


237 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

WINTER SUNSHINE. 

All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. 

'-5 Tennyson. 

A SOFT, balmy afternoon of the winter-time, — yes, 
even of the winter-time, for the warmth of sunny 
days yet lingered around Glenarden. The fall and 
early winter had been a season of unusual mildness. 
The delicate fragrance of winter violets was borne upon 
every breeze; it was said the violets had never known 
such a year, and one might well believe it, seeing the 
plenteousness^ in which they luxuriated. Fred watched 
with growing delight the change wrought in his mother’s 
favor. “Only three weeks in this sunny climate,” he 
said to himself, “and what a change ! By spring she 
will be herself again !” It was true. Hope is not only 
a strength-restorer, but a beautifier, far more than 
change of air and scene. In the presence of Rachel 
Grey’s altered life a flood of memories absorbed her 
powers of consciousness, so that no room was left for 
thoughts of Ruth. The changes that come to us with 
years do not bring with them any forcible realization 
of a corresponding change, in those who were young 
with us. In all the pictures which arose before Mrs. 
Von Arsdel’s mind, with the thought of her girlhood’s 


21 


238 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


friend, in spite of reason, the same Rachel appeared, 
a little older, much sadder, but still the same Rachel 
Grey. Now, looking into the patient, mild, benign 
face of a woman old as herself, — the same one whom 
she had left a girl, sweet, fresh, and joyous, in the time 
that memory brought back, as if it were but yesterday, 
— the first sight of this face gave her a shock from which 
she did not soon recover. But time dulls the keenest 
edge, and, as the days wore on, little half-remembered 
details of face and form assumed bolder outlines, and 
the changing lights and shadows of expression came 
back “like glimpses of forgotten dreams.” In the 
after-days, when calm reflection had brought realization 
of the fact that years bring age, and time brings 
change, — that exemption from the common lot is not 
within the range of reasonable expectation, — then -an 
unsolved problem filled her thoughts, “ Does sorrow 
bless and purify? The shadow of that early disappoint- 
ment will never leave her life; yet an atmosphere of 
serene thankfulness diffuses itself about her. What 
has blessed her ? what leaves upon her face that sweet- 
ness of expression, that mildly benignant look ? If sor- 
row dwarfs, and shrivels or distorts, what warm, genial 
influence has developed the early germs of goodness into 
fragrant blossoms of peace and resignation?” 

In her turn Rachel Grey, too, wondered at the change 
time had wrought. Delicate whiteness and freshness 
of complexion are not the usual accompaniments of 
age, nor do we often see them beneath soft waves of 
silvery hair. The bright flashes of color were gone ; 
otherwise, the flesh-tints were fresh and fair as a girl’s; 
but the hair, and the wondrous dark eyes — the hard 


WINTER SUNSHINE. 


239 


look — the majestic figure, haughty as that of an^ice 
queen ! Had an avalanche swept out of her life every 
flower of love and joy? Was the fount of feeling frozen 
at its source? What was the secret? Thus queried 
Rachel Grey. 

‘Hs it in this way you spend your days, Rachel?” 
Mrs. Von Arsdel asked, one evening after Aunt Ra- 
chel’s daily ministrations were done, and earnest 
eyes had looked thankfully into hers in lieu of grateful 
words. 

I find much time for such as this, and much joy, 
Leonore j so, after all ” 

‘‘You would call yourself selfish, I know, but you shall 
not. Tell me, Rachel, is it this that makes your hap- 
piness?” 

“ This, and more.” 

“ What more?” 

“ A daily round of duties.” 

“ I, too, have a daily round of duties, — of household 
duties, — but they are wearisome ; they stifle me. I hate 
them sometimes, Rachel. Nothing in this life gives me 
joy, — at times, not even the love of my child, — every- 
thing helps towards your happiness. Why? Am I 
cursed? Are you blest ?” 

“ Cursed ! With your surroundings ? The love of 
a husband and a son? With your immense opportuni- 
ties for lightening the burdens of the wretched? With 
money to dispense at your will, taking comfort to 
misery, necessaries — yes, often even life itself — to the 
poor, bread to the hungry, drink to the thirsty, clothes 
to the naked, joy to the despairing, — is this a curse, 
think you, Leonore? Unless, indeed, you choose to 


240 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


make it so by a wrongful appropriation of the gifts that 
He has only lent you to help do his work.” 

Is this your creed?” 

It is the law of my life.” 

“The law of doing good?” 

“ No, not exactly that j but the desire to know what 
I am to do, and, knowing, to do the work. George 
Eliot’s pure and beautiful ‘Dorothea’ says, ‘That by 
desiring what is perfectly good, even when we don’t 
quite know what it is and cannot do what we would, 
we are part of the Divine power against evil, widening 
the skirts of light and making the struggle with dark- 
ness narrower.’ It is true; and if only the desire for 
good ‘widens the skirts of light,’ its fruition must 
flood the world with radiance and end the struggle 
with darkness.” 

“That may be true, but we cannot all have the de- 
sire; each individual must carry out the law of his 
separate being. I have no such desire; where shall 
I seek it ?” 

“ At the feet of God. Of Him who has said, ‘Ask, 
and ye shall receive ; seek, and ye shall find ; knock, 
and it shall be opened unto you.’ ” 

“Ask for the desire to go into hovels of filth, and 
wretchedness, and crime, perhaps ! I am better con- 
tent not to know of such things. I have no need for 
such knowledge ; but if my. money will help in what 
you call the good work, take it, you are welcome. The 
invitation to ‘ask’ does not include such as I.” 

“It includes every human soul; it speaks particu- 
larly, in a language of love, to every heart weak and 
sore-burdened. If you have a sorrow, take it to Him ; if 


AR G UMENTA TIVE. 


241 


you have a deep, silent grief, lay it at his feet ; He will 
bless the burden and the bearer, lessening the weight 
of one, giving strength to the other. He has promised, 
and his word cannot fail.” 

It is this belief that has been your comfort all these 
years of your lonely life, Rachel — this belief?” 

No, it was something more than belief; it is the 
love of Him ‘‘who is closer than breathing, and 
nearer than hands and feet.” 


CHAPTER LIX. 

ARGUMENTATIVE. 

Yet how should I for certain hold, 

Because my memory is so cold, 

That I first was in human mould ? 

Tennyson. 

“Violets here, there, everywhere; in-doors and 
out-of-doors. Ruth, there is a natural affinity between 
your soul and a violet. I could believe — if it were 
orthodox — that, in a previous life, your spirit dwelt 
within a violet. ‘ Something touches’ you ‘ with 
mystic gleams;’ it is ‘the scent of the violets’ that 
‘hangs round you still.’ The meekness of its spirit 
looks out of your eyes, — they ought to be blue, though ; 
don’t you think so, Mr. Von Arsdel?” Adair Mc- 
Dowell spoke in her frank, clear tone. 

“No, they should be just what they are, I think, — 
soft, lustrous brown.” 


21* 


242 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY.. 


“ I was foolish to suppose,” Adair answered, gayly, 
“ that change of latitude or longitude could affect a 
man’s normal moral condition. While there is a woman 
upon the earth to give a smile in exchange for a com- 
pliment, men will flatter. That fact is unalterable. 
It is a vast army they make, flatterers at the front, in 
the centre, at the rear; flattery is their watch-word, 
flattery is inscribed upon their banners — but in mys- 
terious symbols — like the characters of the ‘ Mystic 
Crewe,' which they think none but themselves can 
decipher. Ask a man what is beauty, and he will tell 
you ’ ’ 

“ That its impersonation stands before him,” Fred 
interrupted in a significant tone. 

“Exactly; thanks, Mr. Von Arsdel. I could not 
have given a man’s definition so well as you have 
done.” 

“You are doubly welcome. Miss McDowell, because 
it is true, and because you recognize its truth. I see 
your recognition in that tell-tale smile.” 

“Receive my thanks in the same proportion — by 
twos,” she answered, laughing gayly. 

“Miss McDowell,” Fred said again, in the same 
pleasant tone, but with a modulation of earnestness, 
“sit down here and let us talk. Now,” he added, 
with mock gravity, “I want to convince you that we 
men are a slandered race; and I begin, supposing that 
you are open to conviction, because you know the old 
adage, ‘A man convinced against his will,’ etc., applies 
^equally well to women.” 

“Better,” Adair said. 

“ Very well ; now, for the premises. First — there is 


A/? G UMENTA TIVE. 


243 


that which we’ call beauty ; second — there is that keen 
sense of appreciation in the mind of man, which we 
call love of the beautiful ; third — man is endowed with 
a gift called speech, the gift of expression. Now, 
whatever is beautiful appeals to that exquisite sense of 
which I spoke, and whatever stirs a man’s susceptibili- 
ties stirs also within him the desire of expression. Is 
that admitted?” 

“Yes — with a tribute to your powers of ‘psycho- 
logical analysis.’ ” 

“ Thanks; but don’t trespass upon forbidden ground, 
/am dealing with flattery !” 

“So I observe! I shall not trespass. I was only 
thinking of becoming your pupil, and so began with a 
little innocent practice. You have stated your propo- 
sition clearly ; it is admitted. But I should like to ask 
a question.” 

“ I will hear it.” 

“You are kind, since you have the floor. Here it 
is. In the absence of beauty, what is the sense ap- 
pealed to that begets a desire for expression? A man 
tells a homely woman that her eyes are ‘ glorious orbs,’ 
that she is brighter than the sun, fairer than the moon, 
etc. Will you tell me that, Mr. Von Arsdel?” 

“I will.” 

“What is it?” 

“The desire to evoke beauty.” 

“ She knows he lies.” 

“And yet she smiles.” 

“And that is beauty?” 

“Of course; there is beauty in every woman’s 
smile. But I am losing the thread of my argument : 


244 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


here it is, — the desire of expression. It is this desire 
which gives soul to art : the artist and the sculptor 
reproduce that which appeals to their sense of beauty ; 
the poet puts in words the burning thoughts that em- 
body his highest type of beauty; the musician ' pro- 
duces sounds that, to him, are the perfection of beauty. 
Thus you see. Miss McDowell, that expression is a 
positive need of the soul. Shall poor man — common- 
place* man — man without genius — without the power 
of creating beautiful scenes, or poems, or sounds — 
shall he alone be denied the gift of expression ? Would 
you be so ungenerous. Miss McDowell?” 

“ Does that comprehensive term include woman^ Mr. 
Von Arsdel?” 

Of course !” 

“Yet we never hear women talking about ‘glorious 
orbs,’ and all that high-sounding, unmeaning trash, 
from which we must infer that ” 

“Their vocabularies are limited, or they have no 
sense of the beautiful,” he answered, laughingly. 

“Hear him, Ruth, and put him out !” 

“You are vanquished, Adair; admit it,” Ruth said. 

“ Shall I admit that woman has no appreciation of 
the beautiful ?” 

“ No, that was a new line- of argument ; the previous 
question, ‘Are men flatterers?’ has been dealt^ with 
fairly, and you are vanquished.” 

“ Then I give up the heresy now and forever : hence- 
forth, what is to be my faith?” 

“First, that the genus of which I am an unworthy 
growth always deals in truths. Second, that when a 
man tells a woman she is beautiful, he honestly believes 


TIDINGS OF GREAT JOYT 


245 


it — and so does she / Third, when a man tells an ugly 
woman that she is beautiful, he honestly believes that 
she ought to be — and makes a mental reservation ! Do 
you subscribe to these three articles?” 

<‘Yes — with the right of a ‘mental reservation.’ ” 
Ah — you are still an unreclaimed heretic. Miss Mc- 
Dowell.” 

“Not a heretic, Mr. Von Arsdel; but my faith is 
weak: perhaps you may strengthen it another time.” 

“ I will try.” 


CHAPTER LX. 
“tidings of great joy.” 


It was a tumult in which the terrible strain of the night and morn- 
ing made a resistant pain ; she could only perceive that this would be 
joy when she had recovered her power of feeling it. 

George Eliot. 

Colder days followed — days that needed fire for 
comfort; they had been tardy, and were not unwel- 
come. Adair and Ruth saw much of each other. On 
the afternoon of a clear, cold day, they had walked for 
hours, enjoying the crisp, cold, snapping air so unusual 
in that climate. Adair was to spend the night at Glen- 
arden, and Fred began to watch for the evening 
shadows. There was a freshness and originality about 
this girl that pleased and interested him. He would 


V 


246 LIFE'S PROMISE TO PA Y. 

make her talk; he would arouse an argumentative 
spirit ; her cheeks would flush, her eyes brighten from 
pleasurable excitement ; he would enjoy it. And when 
night came on, the curtains were drawn, and the warm 
fire-light danced, making ‘‘shadow-patterns” on the 
carpet. 

“ I have heard news to-day. Miss De Harte — of a 
friend,” Fred said, speaking to Ruth. 

“ Good news?” she asked. 

“Well, that depends. The friend is married. Is 
that good news? What think you. Miss McDowell? 
Is marriage an occasion for congratulation, or condo- 
lence?” 

“That depends also, Mr. Von Arsdel, and upon 
much it depends. In this case, if to marry a rich 
husband constitutes the sum of a woman’s bliss, in 
your mind, and your friend has married rich, write 
your congratulations. If she has failed to realize that 
supreme object— and you know it — then be still, for 
marriage is not an occasion for expressed condolences ; 
grieve in secret, and be just as miserable as you please 
— but keep your misery to yourself. Society does not 
approve of outbursts — they are entirely too uncon- 
ventional for its stereotyped tastes.” 

“ She has married rich !” 

“And of course should be supremely happy; don’t 
you think so, Mr. Von Arsdel?” 

“What do you think?” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know the lady.” 

“Have you no general opinion?” 

“This is a special case.” 

“But one to which a general rule will apply.” 


TIDINGS OF GREAT JOY: 


247 


‘‘Then she has no individuality?” 

“ She has very much.” 

“How much?” 

“That is not for me to say. Let her husband dis- 
cover.” 

“Will he be agreeably surprised or otherwise? 
You know it has been said, ‘That a fellow-mortal 
with whose nature you are acquainted solely through 
the brief entrances and exits of a few imaginative 
weeks, called courtship, may, when seen in the con- 
tinuity of married companionship, be disclosed as 
something better or worse than what you have precon- 
ceived, but will certainly not appear altogether the 
same. In courtship, everything is regarded as pro- 
visional and preliminary, and the smallest sample of 
virtue or accomplishment is taken to guarantee delight- 
ful stores which the broad leisure of marriage will 
reveal. But the door-sill of marriage once crossed, 
expectation is concentrated on the present.’ ‘The 
door-sill having been crossed by your friend,’ will she, 
like another whose heart-history is chronicled, "find 
‘ ante-rooms and winding-passages which seem to lead 
nowhither,’ instead of the ‘large vistas and wide fresh 
air which she had dreamed of finding’ ?” 

“No,” Fred answered, earnestly, “she will -find 
but darkness and vacancy if the law of ‘ like to like’ 
has been carried out.” 

“And in the mean time,” Ruth said, smiling, “is it 
decreed that I am to remain forever in ignorance of 
her who has brought about this discussion? In pity 
for that unfortunate heritage, a woman’s curiosity, 
tell me who she is?” 


248 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


‘‘A woman’s curiosity and a worpan’s inconstancy 
are the joint heritage,” Fred answered, in the same gay 
tone. Since the first chronicles, fickleness has been 
linked with woman as one of her belongings. She has 
been indelibly stamped with the seal of instability, and 
is received as such into the spiritual mint of all nations. 
On every coin of her heart has been inscribed Incon- 
stancy.” 

“Go on,” Adair said, eagerly. 

“ That is all.” 

“It is NOT all! And you misquote, /know the 
words. I have preserved them in rr^ scrap-book. ‘ She 
has been indelibly stamped with the false seal of in- 
stability.’ You omitted the word, Mr. Von Arsdel. 
You took out of the context what suited, your purpose. 
‘On every coin of her heart,’ it says, ‘has been in- 
scribed inconstancy, until the ages have refused to 
question its genuineness.’ ” 

“The discussion is postponed till another time,” 
Fred said. 

“And a more favorable, you should have added. 
You are vanquished, Mr. Von Arsdel. Declare it!” 
It was Ruth who spoke. 

“At present I am committed to do your bidding.” 

“In all things where her will is yours Adair 
asked. 

“In all things else, except where an unfair victory is 
declared.” 

“ Unfair ! for shame, Fred !” Mrs. Von Arsdel said. 
She and Aunt Rachel had been quiet listeners. 

“ Mother, do you desert my cause? Then am I lost 
indeed ! Miss McDowell, you wear the laurel ; and. 


« TIDINGS OF G REA T JO F.” 


Z49 


Miss De Harte, in obedience to your command, here is 
the name you are curious to hear.” He drew a paper 
from his pocket, unfolded it, and read, — 

^ Married. — In New York City, on the evening of 
the twenty-ninth inst., at the residence of Mrs. Evelyn 
T. Somerville, by the Rev. D. I. McFarland, Carlos 
Luennas, of Havana, Cuba, to Mayne, only daughter 
of Beverly M. Snowden, of New York State.’ ” 

Two words stayed with Ruth: they were ^‘Carlos 
Luennas,” Luennas — Luennas — Luennas — not Lock- 
hart — 'not Lockhart — not Lockhart! Was this joy? 
‘‘It was a tumult in which the terrible strain of the 
night and morning made a resistant pain. She could 
only perceive that this would be joy when she had 
ijl recovered her power of feeling it.” 

ji 





250 


LIFER'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER LXI. 

THE ALTAR OF SACRIFICE. 

Ah, well ! 1 would not overstate that woe, 

For I have had some blessings, little care ; 

But since the falling of that heavy blow, 

God’s earth has never seemed to me so fair. 

Jean Ingelow. 

‘‘Your face was a revelation last night, Ruth.” 

“What did it reveal, Mrs. Von Arsdel?” 

“Surprise and joy. Why either, Ruth? Mayne 
Snowden was not your friend ; she hated you !” 

“I felt it sometimes. Why did she hate me? I never 
wronged her.” 

“ No, but Fred loved you : that w^ your crime.” 

“ Fred loved me ? And she — I thought ” 

“ You thought she loved Lester: she did not, but 
guessed your secret. She loved Fred, and hated you !” 

“ Mrs. Von Arsdel, how can you know this?” 

“In desperation, she told me of it.” 

“ How unhappy t I was deceived^ Mrs. Von Arsdel. 
No wonder that last night’s surprise took the color 
from my cheek ! I will tell you more. ' Several months 
ago, Mayne Snowden wrote me of her intended mar- 
riage, of her trousseau, her mother’s gift of silver marked 
with the letter L. She was to go abroad, she said, 
and . the letter enclosed a newspaper personal of Lester 


THE ALTAR OF SACrTfICE. 


251 


Lockhart. His name was registered for the next sailing 
of a certain vessel, and rumor had it that he would not 
go alone. This was conclusive in my mind. Do you 
wonder that I was surprised last evening?” 

‘‘And you thought, Ruth, that he could love her?""' 

“Oh, no; but ” 

“You thought worse of him than even that !” 

“I cannot tell you what I thought, because I do not 
know. I have not been myself of late.” 

“I know it, child, I see it; but you are happy now.” 

“Happy! oh no, not that; but, thank God, he did 
not marry her ’ 

“You deceive yourself, child. Pride whispers, ‘ Thank 
God he did not marry and another feeling stronger 
yet than pride rejoices in the fullness of its strength that 
it may yet live ; that the edict for its execution is yet 
withheld. I will not ask if this be true, Ruth, because 
I know it is.” 

“It is true,” Ruth whispered. 

“True! Ruth, look at me. I will be honest with 
you. As God is my judge, I had no other motive in 
this visit than to induce your Aunt Rachel to withdraw 
her objections to your marriage. I knew my own in- 
fluence with her — knew the force that Lester’s nobility 
of soul would lend to the argument in his favor. She 
might safely trust to my judgment, Ruth. I am dis- 
interested. Laying this before her. eyes, together with 
his entire devotion to you, I believed I could accomplish 
my desire. With this purpose alone in mind I came 
here, and, Ruth, Heaven be praised, I have succeeded ! 
Your Aunt Rachel consents to have you marry Lester. ” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Von Arsdel ! how could you so humiliate 


252 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


me ? What assurance have you or I that Lester Lock- 
hart loves me now?” 

“The assurance of my own senses. At this very 
hour he is seeking the forgetfulness that you too are 
seeking vainly ; but it is useless, Ruth ; the look of joy 
that overspread your face with the news of Mayne Snow- 
den’s marriage told its own story, and the sadness 
underlying the words of Lester’s last letter to Fred 
breathes the spirit of his fidelity.” 

“Mrs. Von Arsdel, let me thank you in my own 
way, though it can never be.” She put her arms 
around the neck of the woman who would bring her 
happiness, and left upon her lips warm, tender kisses. 

“It can never be ! Great God ! child, what dp you 
mean ?” 

“I mean that were Lester Lockhart to ask me for 
the thousandth time to be his wife, yet I would not.” 

“ And for what reason ? May I know?” 

“Because there is one whose happiness is dearer to 
me than my own. One, whose few remaining years it 
shall be my duty, my pride, my happiness to cheer, 
to brighten, to bless. You know that I speak of Aunt 
Rachel.” 

“ But, Ruth, she consents !” 

“Because she has been made to believe that I am 
wretched, — that I sorrow in secret, — and her good heart 
is filled with fear lest my eye should lose its brightness, 
and my step its elasticity, lest I should die before her 
very eyes ! She could not bear the sight, she knows ; 
her fond heart tells her it is her own work, and so she 
would lift the bur^j^fr froni me and carry it herself un- 
murmuiinglTT^ie grave. But she shall not ! Think 


THE ALTAR OF SACRIFICE. 


253 


you, Mrs. Von Arsdel, that I would ask her to accept 
as my husband the man whose father embittered her 
whole life? Think you that I would have her associate 
my name forever with the thought of his father’s faith- 
lessness? No; she has suffered too much at their hands 
already, God knows. I will spare her further sorrow 
if it be possible !” 

‘‘You are mad,^ child, you are mad !” 

“ Oh, no ! I am not mad.” 

“Then you are carried away by a false enthusiasm, 
— blinded by an unnatural spirit of self-sacrifice and 
devotion to duty. The God you worship does not 
demand the oblation of your happiness upon the altar 
of duty.” 

“ The Father I love asks the offering of my heart ; 
it is in his hand, to do with as He likes.” 

“You talk folly and madness, Ruth. Be the sensi- 
ble girl I take you for, else I will conclude that your 
love for Lester Lockhart was but a fancy, to be for- 
gotten in a day.” 

“ A girl’s fancy ! Do not call it so ! You know me 
better. I cannot abide the weak sentimentality which 
is the sickly growth of morbid fancies and romantic 
imaginings. A'healthy state of mind and heart begets 
no such folly. have known the one, deep, all-ab- 
sorbing devotion of my life ! I never loved another, 
— I never shall ! j This is the honest conviction of my 
soul. To give mm up required a degree of sacrifice of 
which I alone would not have been capable, but I had 
help, — sustaining helpj — and the same hand that led 
me through the darkness of those hours will give me 
strength to quiet all fepinings, — to hush rebellious mur- 
22* 


254 


LIFE’S PROMISE TO PAY. 


murings. Life is crowded with duties to God, my 
neighbor, and myself. There will be no time for vain 
regrets, no inclination to sit with folded hands ‘ all 
the day idle,’ dreaming of what might have been. I 
was a woman in loving, — in suffering ; I will be a 
woman in enduring.” 

'“And you will never marry Lester Lockhart? Is 
that your meaning, Ruth?” 

“ That is my meaning. I will never marry Lester 
Lockhart while his name or presence may recall the 
sorrow of Aunt Rachel’s youth.” 

“ Then my mission here is at an end.” 

“ Oh, no ! Mrs. Von Arsdel ” 

“ Yes, child, there is nothing more for me to do. I 
have failed in every desire of my life. I am doomed 
to disappointment and despair.” 

She walked away with a slow, sad step, and Ruth 
was left alone to wrestle with a great temptation. 

" By that one likeness which is ours and Thine, 

By that one nature which doth hold us kin, 

By that high heaven where, sinless. Thou dost shine 
To draw us sinners in, 

“ By Thy last silence in the judgment-hall. 

By long fore-knowledge of the deadly tree. 

By darkness, by the wormwood and the gall, 

I pray Thee visit me. 

“ Come, weary-eyed from seeking in the night 
Thy wanderers strayed upon the pathless wold. 

Who, wounded, dying, cry to Thee for light. 

And cannot find their fold. 

“ And deign, O, Watcher with the sleepless brow, — 
Pathetic in its yearning, — deign reply ; 

Is there, O, is there aught that such as Thou 
Wouldst take from such as I ? 


LITTLE MAGGIE. 


255 


“ Are there no briars across thy pathway thrust? 
\ Are there no thorns that compass it about ? 
Nor any stones that Thou wilt deign to trust 
My hands to gather out ? 

" O, if Thou wilt, and if such bliss might be, 

It were a cure for doubt, regret, delay. 

Let my lost pathway go, — what aileth me? 
There is a better way.” 


i 


CHAPTER LXII. 

LITTLE MAGGIE. 

” And yet we check and chide 
The airy angels as they float about us, 

' With rules of so-called wisdom, till they grow 

The same tame slaves to custom and the world.” 

Mrs. Osgood. 

The winter wore a milder look ; there were days in 
which it seemed that spring was about to assert itself. 
On one of these, a mild, bright afternoon, Ruth and 
Fred were in the garden hunting violets. Adair was 
walking up the hillside, holding by the hand a little 
girl, whom we have met before. 

“ Oh, there is Adair !” Ruth said, joyously. “ She 
has Maggie with her. I am glad.” 

Who is Maggie?” Fred asked. 

“One of Adair’s little pupils, — Maggie Brown. 
The brightest, most piquant and individual little elf 
you ever had the good fortune to meet. I must go 



256 LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 

to meet them. You stay and find the violets for 
Adair.” 

I thought they were for you !” 

Oh, no! for Adair,” she answered back, running 
down the hill-side. She returned, holding Maggie by 
the hand, and followed by Adair. “ Mr. Von Arsdel, 
this is Miss Maggie Brown.” 

am happy to meet Miss Maggie Brown.” 

No answer from Maggie, who stood looking earn- 
estly into Fred’s face. ^ 

‘‘ Well, Maggie, have you nothing to say?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“ Nothing at all; not one word, Maggie?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

I have just been talking about you, Maggie, and I 
said — now what do you think I said?” 

Maggie, unheeding the question, looked from Fred’s 
face towards the tiny bunch of violets in his hand, then 
into Ruth’s face with an earnest, questioning look. 

“ Does men like flowers. Miss Ruth?” 

“ Mind your grammar, Maggie !” Adair said, with a 
bright smile. 

“ Do little girls love violets?” Fred said, bending 
down towards Maggie, and holding out the flowers. 

“ Ladies does,” she answered coyly, directing a shy 
glance towards Adair. 

“That would have been a well-deserved reproach, 
little miss, if you had given me time to adjust my gal- 
lantry.” 

“It needed dusting,'' Maggie said; “needed the 
best kind of a dusting; ’twas full of cobwebs and 
spiders.” 


LITTLE MAGGIE. 


257 


Loud laughter followed this speech of Maggie’s. 

Fred, in no wise discomfited, went on: ^‘You set 
an example of truth-telling, Miss Brown, that it would 
be well for your elders to imitate.” 

‘‘ Treason !” Adair exclaimed. 

Slander !” Ruth said. 

'‘You had better mind how you talk,” Maggie said, 
shaking her little head, and looking at Fred with an 
expression that warned him to beware of danger. 

" What terrors do you reserve for those who offend 
your brown -headed majesty ?” 

" What does he mean. Miss Adair !” 

" He means, how do you punish people who say 
naughty things about your friends?” 

"Funny way for him \.q that ! Why don’t he 
speak plain ?” 

"You must teach me ! Come here, Maggie ; no ? — 
then I must go to you.” He stooped down, encircled 
her waist with his arm, and drew her towards him. 

"I cannot afford to offend yoi j we rnust be friends: 
those pretty eyes of yours must not look severely on 
me. There ! I like that smile ! Now, are we friends, 
little Maggie ?” 

" If you’ll be right good, and not say naughty things 
about Miss Adair. I love Miss Adair ! don’t you?” 

Ruth came to his relief. "That leaves me out, 
Maggie ; don’t you love me, too? Is Mr. Von Arsdel 
privileged to say naughty things about me ? 

" He doesn’t want to ; he looks sweet at you ; don’t 
you?” she added, turning her head to one side and 
looking into his eyes. 

"Maggie! Maggie!” Adair said, "you need training 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


258 

sadly. Come here, child ; let her come, Mr. Von 
Arsdel. I want to talk with you. Now, I am going 
to tell you something. Will you remember it?” 

’Pends on what it is ; if it’s a fairy story, I will.” 

“It is not a fairy story, Maggie,” Adair said with 
mock gravity j “ it is this : never ask a young gentle- 
man whom he loves ; never propose the same question 
to a young lady : will you remember ?’ ’ 

Maggie’s face grew thoughtful ; it was clear some 
weighty problem was being considered. 

“ May I ask old ladies and gentlemen ?” 

“If they are married — you may.” 

“I know who theyXo^^, Miss Adair; I don’t want 
to ask fodlish questions; they’ll think I don’t know 
nothing.” 

“Do you care to be considered wise, Maggie?” 

“ I cares to have folks think I knows a little.” 

“ Oh, you do ?’ ’ Fred said laughingly ; “ lesson num- 
ber one in female vanity.” 

‘ ‘ Hear what he says, Maggie ! ’ ’ 

“ What, Miss Adair ?’ ’ 

“ He says that you are vain.” 

“Who told you so?” she said, turning towards Fred 
with an indignant look. 

“ You tell me so.” 

“I don’t do no such thing. I knows what you 
think! You think you’re pretty!” The merriment 
was boisterous following this speech of Maggie’s. 

“That’s mean, Maggie, real, downright mean, fol- 
lowing- so soon after our declaration of friendship; 
come, now, take it back; I’m not pretty, am I?” 

“Yes — you is,” hesitatingly. 


LITTLE MAGGIE, 


259 


Well, /don’t think so — do I?” 

/ thinks you does.” 

“ What makes you think so, Maggie?” 

“ You looks like it — that’s the only reason I knows.” 

“The decree has gone forth, and is beyond recall, 
Mr. Von Arsdel ; Maggie is absolute monarch in her 
own empire,” Adair said. 

“ You are responsible for her teachings,” he answered, 
with a smile. 

“ I only direct.” 

“And not always aright, I observe.” 

“The way the twig bends depends very much upon 
the way it is inclined.” 

“ Maggie inclines towards quarreling with me, not- 
withstanding my strenuous efforts towards peace-mak- 
ing.” 

“I doesn’t want to quarrel,” Maggie said, walking 
towards him and looking up into his face with irresisti- 
ble sweetness of voice and manner. “I likes you the 
best kind; you can’t help thinking you’s pretty; you 
is pretty, and you can’t help knowing it.” 

“Bless your candid little soul for the first part of 
that declaration. Won’t you unsay the rest?” 

“ No !” Maggie said resolutely, shaking her head. 

“ Then I must be content to rest under that imputa- 
tion. It’s too bad!” 

“ What’s too bad ? I’m not bad, am I ?” 

“ No, but I am, if your reading be correct.” 

“ My reading is k’rect ; Miss Adair says so, and Miss 
Adair knows, ’cause she’s a teacher I I lets my voice 
fall at a period, and keeps it up at a comma; .don’t I, 
Miss Adair ?” 


26 o 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY, 


‘‘Yes, you do, Maggie !” 

“Ain’t that the way to do?” 

“Yes, that’s the way; but Maggie, Mr. Von Arsdel 
is not pretty !” 

“ / think he is, Miss Adair !” 

“You think he is handsome !” 

“Well — ain’t it just the same?” 

“You shall decide : what do you think of Miss Ruth, 
Maggie?” 

“ Miss Ruth is pretty !” 

“ Is her face like Mr. Von Arsdel’s in any way?” 

“Oh, no!” 

“Then there is a difference in the style of their 
beauty. ” 

“Neither do you look like Miss Ruth; but you are 
pretty too : must I call you handsome?” 

“There! that discussion is settled,” Fred said; 
“childhood has its own laws; do not attempt to sub- 
stitute those of which it knows nothing. To a child, 
beauty is beauty, whether it be the beauty of strength, 
or that of gentleness. For my share of the compliment, 
at least, I thank you, little Maggie.” 

“I ain’t done nothing to be thanked about.” 

“ Come, Maggie,” Adair said, holding out her hand, 
“you have ventilated your theories sufficiently this 
afternoon; we must go now.” 

“You don’t speak no plainer’n Maggie said, 

tossing her brown curls as she looked towards Fred. 

“A well-deserved censure for both of us, Maggie,” 
Fred answered; “in future I shall express myself in 
your language. Good-by!” 

“Good-by! come and see us, won’t you, me and 


LITTLE MAGGIE. 


261 


Miss Adair. Miss Ruth will show you where we live ; 
or, you can come to our school, and I’ll show you how 
I keep my voice up at a comma, and lets it fall at a 
period.” 

‘‘ He knows how you read already,” Adair said, in a 
jesting tone. ^ 

‘‘ Miss Adair,” Maggie said, as they walked home, 
‘Mon’t you think he’s mighty nice ? Don’t you like 
him? /does!” 

‘‘Yes, Maggie; I think he’s mighty nice, and I’m 
not sure that I don’t like him even better than you do.” 

“ I’m so glad !” Maggie said, skipping along in front 
of Adair ; then turning around suddenly, she stood still 
and looked up into her face with an expression of 
childish joyousness. “That will be something nice to 
tell him when I come again, won’t it. Miss Adair?” 

“No, Maggie; it would be mean to repeat what I 
have said without my. permission.” 

“Why, Miss Adair?” 

“Because it would.” 

“ Seems to me that’s a mighty poor reason.” 

“It is reason enough.” 

“Mayn’t I tell him then?” 

“No, Maggie, you must never tell him that or any- 
thing else you hear me say. Will you promise?” 

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, 
because I love you. Miss Adair.” 

“And I love you, my little Maggie.” 


23 


262 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

AMID DARKNESS. 

One part, one little part, we dimly scan 
Through the dark medium of life’s fevering dream ; 

Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan. 

If but that little part incongruous seem. 

Beattie, 

“Help me, O Lord, if Thou canst !” Such was 
the despairing cry moaned out from a human heart to 
meet the deepening gray of the twilight hour. Mrs. 
Von Arsdel sat in the gathering darkness unconscious 
of a presence ; but another had entered softly and 
heard the impious words, — it was Rachel Grey. 

“Leonore,” she said, “do you doubt his power to 
help you?’- 

“ His power or inclination !” 

Why do you doubt Him?” 

“ Because I so need help and comfort, yet they come 
not.” 

“Have you asked for what you need?” 

“Oh, no! Why should I? If God possess all the 
power and knowledge which his worshipers claim for 
Him, it would be a superfluous prayer ; does He not 
know my wants better than I can tell Him ?” 

“Ay, indeed! there is not a single throb of a 
human heart that does not reach Him ; and more. 


AMID DARKNESS, 263 

there is not a single wound of the soul that his hand 
would not bind up and heal.” 

Then why does He let me suffer?” 

Your sorrow is from desolation of spirit, Leonore; 
your heart needs love, yet will not seek it. The earthly 
ruler who cares for the happiness of his people listens 
to the petition of his humblest subject. Is it reason- 
able to think that He who is not only the mighty Ruler 
of heaven and earth, but the loving, tender, sym- 
pathetic Father, would turn a deaf ear to the prayer 
of a child who needs his help, and asks it in a trustful, 
child-like way ? Oh, no, Leonore ! None ever sought 
Him in love and confidence and went away with a 
heart heavy-burdened as it came.” 

do not believe it, Rachel! That He is great 
and powerful, the grand work of creation attests j but 
I have no faith in ‘special providences.’ He is occu- 
pied with the administration of universal law and 
order, I have no doubt, but that He listens to the weak 
cry of each individual heart in this broad universe is 
more than I can accept.” 

“ Do you admit man to be the crowning glory of his 
work?” 

“I do.” 

“And why? Pre-eminently because he bears the 
impress of a divine image. Man is the master-piece 
of God’s hand, the soul is the divine part of man’s 
nature, and love is its life. Whence comes love? 
From Heaven, to the soul that seeks it. Will He who 
made and stamped upon the soul a divine likeness, see 
it droop and languish through need of life-giving food, 
when, seeing and feeling its want, the soul begs for 


264 LIFE’S PROMISE TO PAY. 

love ? Oh, no, Leonore ; believe it not ! A sweet 
soul has written, ‘ The Bible is a revelation of love;’ 
but it is not the only one. There is to each one of 
us a special and personal revelation of divine love in 
the retrospect of that Fatherly Providence which has 
watched over us during our lives. Who can look back 
on the long chain of graces of which his life has been 
composed without a feeling of surprise at the unvaried- 
ness and minuteness of God’s love, — the way in which 
things have been arranged for his happiness or his 
welfare, obstacles disappearing as he drew nigh to 
them, and just when they seemed most insurmountable, 
temptations turning to his good, and, what seemed 
chastisements, as he faced them, changing to love 
when he looked back upon them ? 

“ Every sorrow has found its place in his life, and 
he would have been a loser if he had been without it. 
Chance acquaintances have had their meaning and • 
done their work ; and, somehow, it seems as if fore- 
seeing love itself could not have woven his web of life 
differently, even if it had woven it of love alone. He 
did not know God was so much with him ; for what 
more unostentatious than a Father’s love? When Jacob 
tnade his pillow of the cold stones, and lay down to' 
sleep where he had his vision of the ladder, he saw 
nothing uncommon in the place ; but when he awoke 
out of sleep he said, ‘ Indeed the Lord is in this 
place, and I knew it not.’ This is ever God’s way: 

‘ He is with us tender, loving, considerate, forgiving.’ 
And never more so than when .we are heavy-burdened, 
Leonore. Ask your own mother-heart if it ever ; 
knows a more tender throb than that of sympathy for 


AM/jD darkness. 


265 


the sorrows of the child it loves? Does the Father’s 
heart beat less tenderly, think you ? Ah, no ! He who 
gave up his Son for love of us extends the invitation, 
* Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, 
and I will give you rest.’ ” 

‘‘It is easy for you, Rachel, and all like you, to ask 
favors at his hands ; love gives you the privilege. How 
can I, who am so far separated ? I, who am estranged 
by sin and coldness ? Rachel, I have not bowed the 
knee in worship, nor lifted^ up the heart in prayer, 
during all these long years of my womanhood.” 

“ Leonore, it is his love that gives me the claim 
upon his bounty; not the poor, weak love of my 
human heart. He loves you as well, nay, perhaps, 
better : the very feeling which prompted that doubting 
appeal for help is an evidence of his love ; for, if you 
could live without Him, that hopeless cry had never 
found expression. By prayer will come love, and with 
love, sorrow. Will you pardon me for speaking thus, 
Leonore ? I am the least worthy of his flock ; yet may 
not even such as I point out the path of return to one 
who has wandered far away? Your cry for help 
sounded through the darkness like the knell of a de- 
spairing soul. I could not forbear answering you, for 
whom I wish so much happiness in the life to come ! 
What matter the few days we spend here, whether 
they be days of joy or sorrow, so they bring us what 
we need for our purification ? 


Far better in its place the lowliest bird 
Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, 
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word 
And sing his glory wrong.’ ” 

23* 


266 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY, 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

^^THE BEATING OF OUR OWN HEARTS.” 


Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these 
days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man 
has invariably gone one way, — the way of the love of a woman. 

Dickens. 

Maggie invited me yesterday, and I am here,” 
Fred said, advancing to meet Adair, the day after she 
and Maggie had been to Glenarden. 

“ Perhaps you had better send your card to Maggie, 
Mr. Von Arsdel ; she does not know you are here; or 
I will call her. There she is among the flowers : she will 
be glad to see you.” Adair walked towards the open 
window, which commanded a full view, of the early- 
blossoming trees in front, and Maggie at home beneath 
them. 

‘^Not now, if you please. Miss McDowell; for the 
truth is, I am here to see some one else than Maggie. 
Is she glad ?’ ’ 

am always pleased to see my friends !” 

Only pleased !” 

What more ?” 

“Happy!” 

“ ‘ Happy’ has a meaning in my vocabulary 1” 

“ Happy always has a meaning.” 


**THE BEATING OF OUR OWN HEAR TSB 267 

'‘Think you so? Does it mean anything to the 
woman of society who stills her jealous heart-throbs 
an(j attunes her angry voice to tones of harmony when 
the name of the rival she hates is announced ? Who 
struggles to keep down self, that she may be able to 
appear calm, smiling, self-possessed enough to say 
'How happy I am to see you!’ That much-abused 
word has been worn threadbare in an unholy service. 
I shall never desecrate it.” 

"Is it among your ' Holy of holies?’ ” 

"It is.” 

"Always to be unused?” 

"The things that are most sacred in this life have 
their sacred uses. Oh, no ! not always unused ; but 
reserved now for a better occasion.” 

"Not for a better, Mr. Von Arsdel 1” 

"What then?” 

"A fitter!” 

"What do you mean by 'fitter?’ ” 

"What do I mean?” Adair felt her face growing 
hot. " It seems to me we are talking trifles. Look at 
Maggie ! What is like unto the happiness of child- 
hood?” 

"I shall take another time to look at Maggie; at 
present I am looking at a grown-up child, who puzzles 
me, — one whom I would read but cannot ! Will any 
one who knows her, lend a helping hand?” 

" Maggie reads, and reads well : keeps her voice up 
at a comma and lets it fall at a period, — she would help 
you: let’s call her !” 

"Is she a faithful interpreter?” 

" In her own way, — yes.” 


268 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 
i 

“ Her way is not mine ! Another time I’ll hear her 
read.” 

“Very well, do your own reading then !” ^ 

“I cannot see the page: it is turned away from 
me. ’ ’ 

Adair’s lips parted: “Mr. Von Arsdel ’’then 

closed again. He waited, still looking at her. She 
was silent. 

“Well?” he said. 

“ Nothing !” 

“ Is that all ?” 

“ No ; it is not all. You seem strange to-day !” 

“ So do you, in your own eyes : in mine ” 

“ Let us go out among the trees : I am warm.” 

“ Maggie is there, and I am not ready for her yet.” 
“When will you be?” 

“ When I have read that page.” 

“You are a slow reader !” 

“It is written in hieroglyphics.” 

“ Then it is not intended for your reading.” 

“It might be translated into a familiar tongue !” 

“ Then you would be as wise as she who owns it !” 

“Well, and if I were ” 

“Would it be well for you?” 

“ Would it not ?” ^ 

“ Who can tell ?” 

“ I ! Let me be the judge, Adair !” 

“ Of what? Such nonsense ! Do you sing? /do ! 
Let us sing a duet.” 

“ I prefer to choose my own music.” 

“ Well, you may.” 

“ I have chosen it.” 


“Ty/^ BEATING OF OUT OWN HEARTST 269 

“Name the song,” Adair said, going towards the 
piano. 

“It is not a ^ng.” 

“ Instrumental?” 

“ No ; nor instrumental !” 

“It is not in music, then.” 

“Yes; it in music.” 

“You are contradictory!” 

“ And you 1” 

“ What would you have m^ do ?” 

“Talk, if you please.” 

“And if I do not please?” 

“Be quiet, and listen.” 

“ I prefer to talk.” 

“ Because you are a true woman !” 

“You want to quarrel I” 

“No; I don’t. I want to listen.” 

“ To what ?” 

“ To the sound of your voice.” 

“Very well; I am most obedient; now propose a^ 
subject ?’ ’ 

“Yourself!” 

“Adair McDowell?” 

“Yes; Adair McDowell, — that exactly suits me.” 
“Then, to begin: Adair McDowell, — what shall I 
say of her ? I have not one idea upon that subject, 
Mr. Von Arsdel : propose another.” 

“I will lend you one.” 

“To be returned with interest?” 

“Yes; compounded.” 

“ Excuse me, I do not borrow.” 

“Nor lend?” 


270 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


‘‘Under favorable conditions, sometimes.” 

“What do you call favorable conditions?” 

“A promise to pay, with substantial endorsement.” 

“And usurer’s interest ?” 

“ No, legal rates.” 

“ Do you ever of your bounty, give?” 

“To those who need.” 

“How do they need?” 

• “Through hunger and thirst.” 

“If they hunger and thirst for the music of your 
voice, the sight of your face, the touch of your hand, 
do you give then, Adair?” he was standing close be- 
side her. “It is you I want, Adair, now and forever. 
Do you give her to me ?” 

“I do, with heaven to be my witness.” 

“There is Maggie; will you sing now?” 

“ Miss Adair, you look so hot ! What’s the matter? 
And you look so pretty ! So do you,” she said, look- 
ing towards Fred in her own naive way. 

“ Hush, Maggie ! Miss Adair is going to sing; we 
must be quiet, and listen.” 

“Well, I reckon I always does be quiet when Miss 
Adair sings; you needn’t said that!” Maggie’s pretty 
lips pouted ; but the spirit of peace came back with the 
soft stroking of the brown hair, as she sat beside him, 
while Adair sang a sweet, simple ballad : 


" I wandered by the brook-side, 

I wandered by the mill, 

I could not hear the brook flow. 
The noisy wheel was still. 

There was no buzz of grasshopper. 
No chirp of any bird, 


“ THE BEATING OF OUR OWN HEARTST 


271 


But the beating of my own heart 
Was the only sound I heard. 

" I sat beneath the elm-tree, 

I watched the long, long shade, 

And as it grew still longer 
I did not feel afraid. 

I listened for a foot-fall, 

^ I listened for a word, 

But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

\ 

“ He came not, no, he came not, 

The night came on alone. 

The little stars sat one by one. 

Each on its golden throne. 

The evening air passed by my cheek. 
The leaves above were stirred. 

But the beating of my own heart 
Was all the sound I heard. 

“ Fast, silent tears were flowing. 

When some one stood behind, 

A hand was on my shoulder, 

I knew its touch was kind. 

It drew me nearer, nearer. 

We did not speak a word, 

But the beating of our own hearts 
Was all the sound we heard." 


272 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER LXV. 

AFTER-THOUGHTS. 


But who can view the ripen’d rose, nor seek 
To wear it? 

Byron. 

Fred walked towards Glenarden in a happy frame 
of mind that afternoon ; shall we wonder ? 

Not many weeks ago we saw him rejoicing in the 
fullness of a new-found strength and longing for a trial 
which should test the durability of its texture ; now, its 
enduring quality had been demonstrated to his own satis- 
faction, and not only this; an absolute conviction of an 
immense capacity for joy rushied upon him in the first 
days of his acquaintance with Adair. But Fred had been 
daily learning lessons of wisdom ; the effort to know him- 
self had opened up little secret places of whose existence 
he had not till then dreamed; experience had, taught 
caution and mistrust of self; so, when his heart began 
to whisper a word in behalf of the girl for whose coming 
he found himself waiting and watching, his reason re- 
fused to listen. Perhaps the dread of a self-accusing 
tone lent a thread to the web in whose meshes he found 
himself bewildered; if that reproachful voice should cry, 
“Thou art fickle, weak man !” where could he find an 
answer? how refute such an unwelcome accusation ? If 


A FTER- THO UGHTS. 


273 


the man glorying in the possession of newly-acquired en- 
ergies, strong in the holding of new-found strength, sud- 
denly finds that he has been cheated into a delusive belief, 
that in his strength there is weakness, he may struggle 
to retain hold of the first faith, however frail and un- 
certain may be the tenure, and however strong may 
be the opposing force. We need not wonder, then, 
to see a man deliberately shutting his eyes to the sight 
1 of that which, admitted, would fend to loosen his hold 
upon a cherished belief — in, himself. He had risen 
from sloth into energetic activity. He had mapped 

I out purposes and plans, and had so far put them into 
effect ; he had begun to realize his own dreams, all 
through love of a woman whom he expected to love 
always, in spite of every effort to put away all thought 
of her, all hope of her love ] yet, in a comparatively 
brief time, and in the very presence of the woman who 
had wrought this change in his life, behold ! we find 
him seeking to assure himself of his faith, truth, and 
constancy, by resolutely shutting his eyes to an unwel- 
come truth. 

“It would be joy supreme to — to — . Of what am I 
thinking?” was the channel into which his thoughts 
flowed, without direction, at sight of Adair, with the 
' sound of her voice, in presence of the up-leaping 
flame that dyed her cheek in a way that filled him 
with tingling sensations. “What might it mean?” 
But the “Ego” in Fred’s nature had been discovered 
and dragged into the clear light of day for the purpose 
of critical analysis; now, his suggestions were un- 
heeded, and when Adair’s blush made the way for a 
subtle hint of her love, Fred, by an acti'oit stratagem, 
24 


274 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


turned away from the enemy whose force had been 
strengthened by fresh recruits, and directed his steps 
straightway to a foe with whom it was his interest, just 
now, to be in alliance. The ‘‘sweet looks” that even 
little Maggie saw, were but a ruse de guerre, as we 
have seen, since the next day found him on the road 
to Adair’s, though with no better-defined intention 
than that of proving to himself that he did not love 
her, — that he was attracted, pleased, charmed, perhaps, 
for the time; that was all; he would rid himself of all 
doubt ; and he did, 77iost conclusively, for when Adair 
began to speak — when, in a flutter of tremulousness, 
her voice betrayed her secret — he knew no more than 
the desire to be near her always, to hear her voice, 
to look into the clear depths of her earnest, beautiful 
eyes. Fred’s nature was an impressible one, as we 
have seen ; in presence of his susceptibilities, all de- 
fects fled and hid their heads in shame. Adair loved 
him — had told him so — she was dearer to him than all 
the world — he was happy ; and so he hummed a tune, 
out of very joyousness, as he walked home that day. 

The past had slipped away, and with it the old life 
and the old nature that he had outlived; herein was 
the solution of the problem whose intricacies perplexed 
him. Ruth had been part of that old life, as Adair 
was now part of the new. 


Woman is not undevelop’t man, 

But diverse ; could we make her as the man, 
Sweet love were slain ; his dearest bond is this, 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 

Yet in the long years liker must they grow ; 
The mal! be more of woman, .she of man. 


THE CARNIVAL TIME. 


275 


, 


He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world ; 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childw'ard care. 

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind ; 

’Till at the last she set herself to man 
Like perfect music into noble words.” 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE CARNIVAL TIME. 

i Connoissez-vous cette terre ou les orangers fleurissent, que les 
rayons des cieux fecondent avec amour? Avez-vous entendu les 
« sons melodieux qui cel^brent la douceur des nuits? avez-vous respire 
ft ces parfums luxe de I’air dejk si pur et si doux? Repondez, etran- 
1 gers, la nature est-elle chez vous belle et bienfaisante ? 

* Mme. De Stael. 

Let us go at once.” 

' By what route, mother ?” 

' Any, so it be quick and short. I long for home !” 

Then, if it please you, let us go by New Orleans. 
The Carnival time is near at hand, and Lester will be 
f there. I almost promised to meet him.” 

A The Carnival has no charms for me, Fred: it 
* would be but an empty mockery ; but I must see Lester 
1 soon, and, if he be there, let us go.” 
i 5 |« 

i The city is a wide illumination, for it is the night of 
the Carnival, and the people are abroad to look upon 


2 


276 


LIFE'S PROMISE .TO PAY. 


I 

( 


their world seen by the ^‘brightness of its own splen- . 
dor.” The soft, glowing, luscious day has melted into ! 
tender, dreamy night. Subtle perfumes fill the air, for ( 
it is a land of fruits and flowers ; of mirth, music, and ^ 
revelry as well : to-night gladness is abroad, set free by { 
a hand that loves not care or sorrow. The heavens \ 
are aflame; the earth is ablaze with light ! The ruby - 
flashes glow from a million spots ; red lights glance | 
— play — -dance-^making weird patterns in the sky, — 
patterns of supernatural light and splendor. Wonder- i 
ful creations of classic art move in slow procession 
through the thoroughfares, their brilliancy and beauty . 
heightened, their effect intensified, by an atmosphere ' 
of rose-colored light. A panorama of exquisite beauty • 
delights the senses. A moving mass of people blacken 
the streets, surging to and fro upon the long, lighted 
avenues, the broad, paved streets, the narrow, crooked, 
winding places. Music is in the air, floating onward, . 
upward, stirring the pulses and quickening the heart- : 
throbs of these mirth-loving children of the sun. ; 
Picturesque spots are set in a golden glow : quaint de- - 
tails are quainter still, seen by the widening glare. : 
The crowd surges on, following, with delighted vision, - 
the gorgeous pageantry that moves in stately splendor. . 
Grotesque figures mingle with the throng; fantastic 
garbs and shapes meet one at every turn, gay masquers 
are noisy in their revels, they are the subjects of the ‘ 
■"King of Misrule; but the greater multitude — they who ; 
worship in the courts of another and a mightier king, 
The World — wear another and a more oppressive mask, 
beneath which they are quietly decorous, in obedience | 
to the command of him they serve. The one is a gay, 


THE CARNIVAL TIME. 


277 


mirth-loving, merry-making king ; the other, a stern, 
exacting tyrant. Each court moves on in the train 
of him it serves, and as both pause, eager to catch 
another and a better vision of the scenic grandeur that 
fills the streets, the illumination broadens, deepens, 
lighting up earth and sky with its resplendent glories. 
The “ Crescent City” is enthroned amid color, light, 
music, and crowned with flowers. Beauty does her 
homage, and manhood bears the sceptre of her sover- 
eignty. The people cast offerings at her feet, and are 
rewarded with her bidding to be a gay, mirthful, care- 
forgetting people. And so they are ; for, as the night- 
hours wear on, amid the maddening delights of melody, 
“ feet flew like autumn leaves blown by wild breezes, 
laughter echoed like the chimes of sleigh-bells, and 
men and women went mad with the joyous delirium of 
motion.” The King of the Carnival is a loving king; 
his subjects are a loving people. Alas ! that his reign 
should be so brief. Morning dawns upon a crownless 
monarch. The world has usurped his throne. The 
people are paying homage to the greatness of the new 
king, swearing eternal fealty to his cause. They would 
not be unfaithful ; yet in each secret heart lurks a re- 
gretful memory of him — the joy-giver — who was called 
‘‘King of the Carnival.” 


24* 


278 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

THE PURSUING PHANTOM. 

There are certain moments in life in which we say to ’ourselves, 
“ All is over !” 

Bulwer. . 

An inward shock accompanied Lester’s first vision 
of Mrs. Von Arsdel’s altered face. Gradually-growing 
details assumed shape and prominence, making mani- 
fest to Lester’s keen vision a marked change also in 
the character, of her son. It was clear, then, that Fred 
had outgrown his weakness — his irresolution — and in 
so short a time ! Lester wondered, watched, and was 
silent, content to stray amid the bewildering intrica- 
cies of a mental problem which gave the sweetness of 
joy to his investigations; for Lester was a mental ex- 
plorer, and whatever gave promise of an attainable 
field, rich and boundless, gave promise also of a satis- 
fying knowledge to the explorer, and this was abundant 
reward. To study the subtle forces underlying human 
conduct was a demand of Lester Lockhart’s nature, 
intimate and close-connected as his very conscious- 
ness. Unwinding twisted threads of character gave 
him keen enjoyment : from one fibre judging the tex- 
ture of the whole ; of one link making a connected 
chain. All things grow by proper culture : the study 


THE PURSUING PHANTOM. 


279 


of mental processes not less than any. Lester’s ca- 
pacity in this direction had grown and strengthened 
during the months of his absence in an inverse ratio 
to his inactive faculties. 

The key given him abroad, by Fred’s own articles, 
opened the door to a vast room of speculative imagin- 
ings, which the present time and opportunities must 
either contradict or verify. So Lester found himself, 
on the journey home, studying his friend with a pur- 
pose, strengthened by an underlying conviction that 
the result would not be an unpleasant one, — neither 
detracting from the character.of his friend, nor taking 
from the astuteness of his own judgment. Let us leave 
him undisturbed in the self-satisfying investigation, 
while we go on to Gloaming Grange. 

* * * * * 
‘^Home, to die ! I will not carry that shadow to 
the grave ! To-night ! — yes, even this very hour — I 
will tell all to Rachel Grey, so help me God 
And she did tell all to Rachel Grey ! 


28 o 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 


THE SKELETON UNCOFFINED. 


God hath yok’d to guilt 
Her pale tormentor — misery. 


Bryant. 


My brow does not bear the mark of Cain, Rachel 
Grey, but his deep, damning guilt is on my heart ; for, 
though I did not take away your life, in that early 
time, yet I did more. 

Shall I tell you how ? I will — I must ! the wretched 
words force themselves out from a heart burdened with 
sin and remorse. I cannot keep the secret longer 
within its dark recesses : the air is foul with the sicken- 
ing vapors of the vault where sin and misery have been 
entombed during all these miserable years. Ere I die, 
I long for the light of peace to penetrate its dim, dark 
r,ecesses — not to cleanse and purify, that is impossible, 
but to waft there, upon the dewy wings of light and 
air, a little of the old-time sweetness. Old time ! ay, 
indeed ! far back into the years that seem dead, cen- 
turies ago. I cannot bear to begin the story, Rachel ! 
It is so sweet to have you think well of me yet, even 
for this little while ! 

When you shall have read through these pages, our 
long intimacy will seem a hideous dream, and my 


'a 


THE SKELETON UNCOFFINED. 281 

: friendship a horrible deformity! And so, in truth, it 
I is. Pardon me if yet I linger, and, for one moment 
more, bask in the sunshine of your love and confidence, 
i It is over now 1 Let us go back — more than thirty 
years — to the months before your wedding that was 
to be, and never was. Rachel Grey, your betrothed 
^ husband loved me until your face came between us. 
i His lips had never told me so, but there is another, an 
unspoken language that hearts understand. His eyes 
1 had told that story. Rachel, need I tell you that I 
loved him? He was my life — myall — my soul — my 
j God, before whose shrine I knelt in the blindest ado- 
I ration I 

1 He went South that winter, because I was there 
I spending the months with you ; and, had not your fair, 
j sweet face come between us, I should have heard the 
I story of his love. And then, Rachel, I meant to tell 
1 you ; but, until then, my lips were sealed, because — 

' well, you have a woman’s heart ; I need not tell you 
why ! It is not of myself that I would write now. 
Heaven knows I can offer no extenuation of my crime, 
and, Rachel, I seek none 1 

He had not been there, many days when the truth 
revealed itself to me — the hideous truth — that my 
presence had lost its charm for him, my eye its bright- 
ness, my voice its sweetness ! Oh, woe 1 I felt it burn- 
ing deep down in the centre of my soul. I was mad 
with rage and jealousy, yet no sign betrayed me in all 
those long, sweet confidences that were your joy and 
7ny curse. You were too much blinded by an excess of 
happiness to have read the story, had my face revealed 
it ; but it did not. Do you remember the night you 


282 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY, 


told me? You do; and I . Oh! it is stamped 

upon my memory in characters of fire I I listened, 
or seemed to listen, for, after the first terrible realiza- 
tion of the truth, I heard no more. I was deaf — blind 
— frantic! How you talked on, uttering words that, 
to me, were fraught with a terrible meaning ! Rachel, 
I had hoped even against hope still to regain his love. 
Freed from the witchery of your presence, he would, I 
blindly and madly hoped, again return to the old love. 
I was devising a scheme for my pretended recall home, 
— he would not, I knew, let me go alone, — and, once 
away from you, he would be mine ! In the midst of 
this, you told me that you were his promised wife ; 
and, in that very hour, when the demon of rage and 
jealousy possessed my soul, I swore that it should never 
be ! Though I thought I loved you, Rachel, and I 
did, with the little capacity left me from the one 
consuming, all-absorbing passion of my life. That 
night, sleeping beside you and looking upon that fair 
young face, — sweet and peaceful in its happy dreams, 
— what a fierce contest raged in my heart between the 
hellish host and the faint remnant of good yet left in 
my bosom ! The evil conquered, as the sequel shows, 
and morning dawned upon the desperate resolve born 
and fostered amid the gloom of the midnight hours ; 
and the morning favored my plans, for it brought a 
letter from my mother recalling me home. You had 
told me of your cousin Will — of his love for you — of 
your promise to be his wife, given at a time when you 
did not know your own heart — of his rage when he 
received from you the words that severed his claim 
forever: he would return soon from the Indiesj and 


THE SKELETON UNCOFFINED. 


283 


you looked forward to his coming with dread. What 
might not his fierce passions prompt him to do, you 
thought. This was the shadow that clouded your hap- 
piness. Your betrothed husband saw it resting upon 
your brow without being able to divine its meaning, 
and you would not tell him. Ah, Rachel, that was 
the fatal mistake which helped me to wreck your hap- 
piness ! There should be no secrets in love. 

When he found that I must go, he sought you to say 
that he would bear me company home. I watched him ! 
He found you in the arbor ^ followed ; and — concealed 
there in the thicket of vines growing on and about the 
spot — I heard every word you said, and his replies — his 
tender importunities to tell him what caused that hated 
shadow — your attempts to re-assure him — his entrea- 
ties. I saw his looks full of fervent meanings — your 
tears. I saw and heard what maddened me, and I was 
wild to go away forever ! I went, and he went with 
me. He was sad — nay, more : there was a settled 
look upon his face that suggested anger, and perhaps 
doubt j for his was an exacting nature, and the thought 
that you excluded him from any knowledge of your 
own, did not please him. He spoke of you, — he could 
not help it, — his thoughts were full of you. I replied 
in a way that led to questionings and ended in the 
consummation of my guilty purpose. Rachel, I told 
him that you loved your cousin Will^ but had been in- 
duced to break off the engagement for a better match ; 
that family embarrassments made a marriage of wealth 
desirable ; that you were making a sacrifice for the 
sake of those you loved. It was love of Rachel, I 
said, that induced me to tell him this, and he did not 


284 LTFES PROMISE TO PAY. 

doubt me. I had planted the thorn, and now only- 
watched to see it grow. I knew with whom I dealt. 
There was no d^wiger of betrayal. His nature was 
quick, impulsive, neither slow to receive impressions 
nor slow to act upon them. It was a desperate ven- 
ture; but, if I lost him, I lost my all, and what cared 
I for aught else in this life? Oh, his face, Rachel! his 
face when that revelation burst upon him 1 I would 
have given my soul to comfort him, if my love could 
have brought him comfort ; but the words — the false, 
treacherous words — were b^ond recall. 

He wrote you, and his words separated you forever ! 
You believed him to be false and treacherous who was 
the very soul of honor I Well, the long-unsolved 
problem is read at last, after all these years ! My God ! 
can I ever forget his silent anguish? We lived on, — 
even you and he, — for sorrow does not kill, Rachel 
Grey ! You lived to scatter seeds of kindness in the 
path you trod, that they might blossom, and brighten 
the way for others. I lived to grow hard and cold 
with bitter thoughts ; to chill even the hearts of those 
who would have loved me. Many bless your name; 
there is but one in all the world who lovingly compas- 
sionates the desolation of my life ! You are sanctified 
by suffering ; I hardened by sin 1 Your face is the 
index to a gentle spirit ; mine is stamped with the dark 
seal of despair. Such are the fruits of virtue and of 
vice I One a blooming rose scattering the sweets of its 
fragrance upon the air, brightening with its presence, 
gladdening, and giving joy ! the other, the stunted 
growth of a parched and arid soil ! 

But I am not yet done. 


THE SKELETON UNCOFFINED. 


285 


“The hope I dreamed of was a dream — was but a 
dream.” Not one tender word from him ever bore its 
sweetness to me ; not one look of love ever rested upon 
my face ! Fopl that I was, to think that, having loved 
you, he could ever return to me again, and be content ! 
He never spoke of you — and I was glad. There was 
comfort in the thought that he was free, — that I was 
free to love him still, — that I might yet hope to win 
him when this shadow should be lifted away from his 
I life. Six months after, he married another woman — 
Lester’s mother. Rachel, you were avenged that hour. 
Yes, I swear to you, my punishment was meted out in 
proportion to my sin. If you do not believe me, re- 
call the agony of that hour when his supposed treachery 
came home to your heart, and add to it the conscious- 
ness of a burden of guilt which time and eternity 
might not wipe away. Oh, yes, the penalty was pro- 
portioned to the crime ! I prayed to die, but death 
would not come, and I lived only to hide my sin from 
the world’s keen eyes, and to marry the first man who 
should present himself. You know the rest, — at least, 
as well as any but my own heart can ever know the 
misery of my married life. Retribution came in its 
own good time, and the avenging Nemesis has been 
busy at her work since the hour my hand laid your 
life in ruin. My path in life diverged from that of the 
man whom we both loved. He went on his way in the 
great throng ; I followed mine, and it led me here, — 
away from him. . One day, he came ; I had not seen 
him for years ; and his object was — w]jat ? think you! 
He had been South — had visited the old haunts — had 
lingered round the spots he knew so well in those long- 
25 


286 


LIFERS PROMISE TO PAY. 


past years — ^had met Ruth — had seen in her the incar- 
nation of your lost youth ! His heart went out toward 
the girl. She had never seen the world } she longed to 
see it, and he longed to have her gratified. He thought 
of me, of our early friendship. He sought me here, in 
my own home for the first time. He asked me to invite 
Ruth here, and to do so on my own account 1 And I 
did ; for, Rachel, though his coming brought with it 
the ghost of my buried life, and I longed tonell him' 
all, — to show him how unworthy I was of so pure a 
trust, — yet I did not, for the sake of my son, and be- 
cause a hope faintly dawned that I might, through Ruth, 
be able to make you sonje reparation. I was silent. 
The promise he desired, I gave him, and he went his 
way. I wrote to you, and Ruth came. How like your- 
self, in that happy time ! My son and Lester Lockhart 
had been college-friends, but I had never met him. 
I should think it a strange coincidence, — his coming 
just then, when memories were already crowding upon 
me,— but that I believe the plan to have been arranged 
by his father. It is all a mystery now — some day it may 
be clearer. At any rate, he came with Fred. My 
heart had gone out to Ruth in the beginning, and im- 
agination was already busy with projects in her regard 
— and Fred’s — when they both came home together— 
my son and the son of the man I had loved, and so 
like him that I went back again to those early days in 
my life. 

I should have been prepared for disappointment at 
every turn, yet '.I was not ; it came again, and con- 
fronted me with its grim, stern-featured visage ! 

Before she was willing to tell the secret to her own 


THE SKELETON UNCOFFINED. 


287 


heart, I knew that Ruth loved Lester Lockhart. Des- 
pair began to lay her chill fingers upon me, for a fore- 
boding of evil came with the thought. You forbade 
the marriage ! Then it was that I resolved to see you ! 
I did, and succeeded in my purpose. A new obstacle 
arose in the form of Ruth’s devotion to what she called 
‘'duty.” I gave up the hopeless task, and the gaunt 
figure of Despair pointed with its skeleton hand to the 
deep, yawning gulf where all my hopes lay buried. I 
am done now, except to sky that the few lines you 
have written me during all these years have but added 
to the bitterness of my misery and the intensity of 
my remorse. I can bear it no longer, Rachel Grey, 
and though I do not hope for forgiveness at your hands 
nor in Heaven, — I do not deserve, I do not ask it, — 
yet the unearthing of this fearful secret gives me a peace 
I have not known for years. When these lines shall have 
reached you, he and his son will know all from my own 
lips. His wife has been dead for years; the story can- 
not grieve her now. My days are numbered, and that 
they are few, I read in the pained, anxious face of my 
son. Never tell him of his mother’s sin ; I could not 
bear to have him harbor one reproachful thought of my 
memory when I am dead. This is all I ask. Tell Ruth 
the whole story, and say to her that she will yet be 
happy. It is the last and only wish of a miserable 
woman. » Leonore Von Arsdel. 


288 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

IJGHT AMID DARKNESS, AND DARKNESS AMID LIGHT. 

Kneel not to me : 

The power that I have on you, is to spare you : 

The malice towards you, to forgive : live. 

And deal with others better. 

Shakspeare. 

Little thought of self, or of the relation it bore to 
her own life, carae~into Ruth’s mind with the reading 
of this fearful tale of wrong. Aunt Rachel filled her 
thoughts. What must be her feelings at sight of the 
ghost of her youth rising from the tomb where it had 
been buried for more than tliirty years? To find him 
blameless, who had borne the blame ; to know him 
guiltless, with whose name she had associated treachery 
during all these years ! To know her base, whom she 
had loved and trusted ! What a- bewildering conflict of 
emotions must have agitated her very soul with the un- 
weaving of this intricate web of deceit and falsehood ! 
Strange questionings came to Ruth. • “What feeling 
rules Aunt Rachel now, and gives tone and color to her 
thoughts?” Not anger, bitterness, nor an unforgiving 
spirit: Christian love had burst these bonds in her 
early struggles long-ago, and the meekness and gentle- 
ness of charity were in their- stead. Again, Ruth’s 
wonderings assumed such shape as this: “Did any 


LIGHT AMID DARKNESS. 


289 


drop of joy mix itself with the bitterness of her cup? 
Was there a happy heart-throb at the finding of his 
truth whom she had * weighed in the balance and found 
wanting?’ Had love grown old, and in its age grown 
cold?” How she wondered at these things, watching 
the quiet form moving about the house on its accus- 
tomed round of duties ! So wronged, so injured, 
and yet no shadow of a rebellious thought ever rested 
upon her face. 

Aunt Rachel sat, with her work in hand, but her 
fingers were unsteady, and her thoughts seemed far 
away. Resting her head upon her hand, the work fell 
away from her fingers, and she looked out toward the 
blue distance, ‘^thinking of the days that are no more.” 

I am so sorry, Aunt Rachel !” Ruth’s arms were 
about her neck. 

‘H know it well, my child ; your face tells a tale of 
love and sympathy.” 

It must be hard to bear !” 

“ I could not bear it of myself, Ruth, but there is a 
Hand that has never failed to help me when I needed 
help. There is a light that shines brightest when all 
else is dark ; it never shone with a purer, steadier glow 
than now, when human love lies shattered and broken 
at my feet.” 

^‘A light such as that has never dawned upon my 
life. Would that it might !” 

‘‘It has dawned, my child, else a trial such as you 
have known and suffered would have left a bitter im- 
press. You are seeking to reach the lofty height of 
self-renunciation. His hand will reach down and lift 
you up, when you are ‘ travel-sore and weak.’ May you 
25* 


290 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


be led along paths less harsh and rugged than mine 
have been ! May you be spared the bitterness of mis- 
placed love and confidence ! Twice in my life have I 
felt this cruel sting: once, when the best feelings of 
my heart went out towards him whom I had chosen to 
be niy husband ; and now, again, when the friend I 
believed in with the fullest trust, exposes to me the 
treachery and faithlessness of her nature. May Heaven 
forgive her ! From my inmost heart I pity her !” 

“'Pity her. Aunt Rachel?” 

“Yes, deeply and sincerely. What are our sorrows 
corhpared with hers? We are unburdened with re^ 
morse ; she is guilty of a sin for which she sees no 
pardon in this world, nor in the life to come. How 
fearfully has she been punished !” 

“It seems to me. Aunt Rachel, that one capable of 
such baseness, would be incapable of regret.” 

“She acted madly, while under the influence of a 
temporary delirium. There is no moral frenzy like 
that of jealousy. When the violence of the passion 
had subsided, and she fully realized the extent of her 
sin, then the punishment began, only to be added to 
with every year of her life. I had no thought of her 
love for Robert Lockhart.” 

“ Would that you had never known her !” 

“That is a human cry. Perhaps this was the dis- 
cipline most needed to save me from.- myself. Do you 
know, Ruth, my child, that in my girlhood, I was rash, 
impetuous, and with a haughty, untamed spirit? I was 
blinded by self-love to the deformities of my character, 
till sorrow’s hand, in taming my spirit, removed the 
scales and showed me myself. Oh ! I had a fierce 


AFTER MANY DAYS: 


291 


bitter struggle with rebellious pride, in that first hour 
of my deep humiliation. But the contest is over now, 
and I rest secure in the love of Him who has taken 
upon himself the burden which was ‘ too great for me.’ 
My though'ts are of you now, my child, and of the 
happiness your life would have known but for me.” 

“ Do not say so. Aunt Rachel. What is my sorrow 
compared with the one you have borne all these years?” 

It is much, dear, but let us hope that ‘it will all be 
right in the morning,’ ” 


CHAPTER LXX. 

“after many pays.” 

For whither thou goest, I will go ; and where thou lodgest, I will 
lodge : thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. 

Book of Ruth. 

The evening air was laden with perfume ; the day 
was closing gently, diminished by shadows that crept, 
stealthily over the landscape. The breezes that floated 
about were pure and cool. Ruth loved them : they 
tempered the hot flushes that swept into her face with 
a tide of memories; helped her to' still the restless 
throbbings of her heart; moderated quick pulsations; 
reduced to comparative order a host of bewildering 
thoughts, emotions, sensibilities that were acting upon 
every fibre of her being, and stirring into response 


292 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


long-fettered hopes and dreams. The events of the 
last few days had conjured up pictures whose shifting 
scenes gave exquisite delight. A time had come when 
resistance to emotion seemed not possible. An inter- 
lude of joy between a dark past and a gray future 
might neutralize her efforts towards self-repression, 
might take away from the strength and dignity of re- 
solve ; it could do no more than that: and so Ruth’s 
thoughts flowed quietly into the old channels, putting 
aside every obstruction that made resistance. Poor 
child ! she was weary of struggle. The way had been 
rough and long ; it lay between borders destitute of 
blossom and fragrance, and Ruth loved beauty, — was 
exquisitely sensitive to all rare and pure delights. The 
little by-path leading away from the broad, straight 
road was ripe with bloom and beauty ; might she not 
rest there, be refreshed, and gather strength for the 
next day’s journey towards the end? ‘‘Is there any 
peace in ever climbing up the climbing wave?” 

“ Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, 

And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 

While all things else have rest from weariness?” 

It was as if all things present were melting away in 
this sweet, dreamy sense of perfect rest, — rest from 
sorrow, from painful effort, from stifling consciousness. 
In their place, visions began to float — visions that daz- 
zled the senses. So sweet and fair were they to look 
upon, that Ruth lingered, straying farther away from 
the stern present, and nearer to the confines of that 
past life where her last farewell had been spoken amid 
sobs and tears. She touches the border-land, crosses 


AFTER MANY DA KS".” 


293 


over, enters, recognizes familiar sights and sounds, 
and lives over again the days that met her there and 
gave such joy. Music lends its power to the conjurer, 
and again the sweet pathos of the “ Stille Liebe” floats 
out upon the deepening twilight. “There is between 
a sound and the soul a marvelous relation. It seems 
as though the soul were an echo in which the. sound 
takes a new power. ” Another scene came back with 
the tones, — a scene that was the beginning as this was 
the end. Ruth had given herself to memories ; and 
they crowded close upon her, shutting out present pain 
and blinding her vision to the sight of all but joy. 
As the twilight deepened the music rose and fell — 
floated — trembled — bearing out upon the waves of 
sound a precious cargo of dreams and hopes. 

^‘Ruth!” her hand stood still — and her heart — did 
she dream ? 

“Ruth !” 

“ Lester !” 

“ My brown-eyed gleaner, what shall part us now?” 

“ Naught but death !” 

“Is there no word forme?” 

A figure, hidden till then in the darkness of the twi- 
light shadows, advanced, led her to the open window, 
where the light was not too. gray for her to recognize in 
Lester’s father the stranger whose coming made a land- 
mark in her life. His words came back like a flash: 

If ever we meet again in this life may you be able to 
say to me ’ ’ 

“Have I no word for you? Yes, one,” she said, 
extending towards him her hand, “and it is that — I 
have full value received /” . 


294 


LIFE'S PROMISE TO PAY. 


■ FINALE. 

Mrs. Von Arsdel’s life has closed. Adair’s and 
Ruth’s married lives are but just begun. Aunt Rachel’s 
days are passing in sweet serenity. She met the old 
love calmly, and they parted, content that life had done 
as much. We have Ruth’s own oft-repeated word to 
bear us out in the declaration, that Life has redee77ied 
its pro))iise to pay P ’ 


645 




















If J 




fr' 






rt' 


> V' 


» ? 






» *k» 




i 




♦• ' « 


^ I ' 

1 C 


1 ' y. 


r,$* 


•tf 






M 1 




’ .iS’ 


V ' 




VA 


«» 








f i 


>f 


‘A.V- 


% 




I'lii* 


*> 




V »' 




iv 


r-A 


t ** 


■»,v>i 




i . . ( 


» - * i. 


An 




l^• 








^1 ’i 


r/' 


1 .1\ 




vV! 


1/ 




ft 






Hu» 






<•: ti 


) « 


^.1 


■«• . I 


1. 1. 


.H 






|» ,1 


f »• 


• 


'»♦ 


a- 


V 


• . '’!''h (i. 


■y. * - 

'■p?: - ^ ■•('. 

ItTiv . ^ « t-B^Hfr I 


.r 


^ ' 


>rr 


F. 


fi 




V 


.%:* 


.ii 


i» 


7 •■ 


r » 


^ ft 


.♦> I 


t/Ni'. 


% 


I* < 


u 






v\ i 


n 


i\'\ 






T ¥ « I » 


t. 


•rJf I 


r. 


Y-'j 




t I 




3 » 


1 V - 


fi* 






a 


I a, 3 






V «1 


















ii 


/n 


if, 


3 ,'J 


It. 


hi 


m 


r.-j 




I'fATi 


r ^ 


,» > 






<1 




,V 


ti> 


II# 


*. ^ 


i i 


n, 


r • 






y vm 


!, .»■» 








jkS^‘ 


\ » 


uNI 






I ' » 


■it' 


■VV ;• 

"iJ /• ,■ 

i-> f Jfv . > : 

4 ^,. 




/4 






it 


I 




kjii fi^A 












|U\ /A O ^ 

■ r * ° ^ 

• .■;, -i " ,, ,»>' '^_ o 


' ' • ^rv * ’ ~ “ ’v'-'' 


} /: 2 ^ yTrTfyyS^ 

V'-*''/v'''’s'V“’^V^” 

'' -o 0^ 

f • .0 0, “ , AT, , 3/'i^ 

> vv 


^ r 0 ^ ^ D 

% 'f 

^ cFOvnV^'^L. 'Ka ^ 

^ ^ 0 o^, 


tf^ \V 


> >'V = 


» Cl ^ 

^ y '^. - ^ - 

A o V ' ✓ .V 

V 'i' r^\ s ' 




. ' ^ 4 * 

t; v^ 







^ u I "X ^ ^ ® 

^ ^ ^ ^ Y ^ 

* ^fe'- % 

■D c? >2=^l|}|fe=5? <- cP 


r ‘o ^ “. A- 

c\\ « V I 8 ^ 't '^ < ^ 0 

C» ^ _r 


. av ,/> v/f^m - c - 


> \v- 'r^ 

.'■ r'?'* ^ 

\> »'*”/■ 




C. ^ 



'hf 

^ - ' 

V *o ^ * 

* <>'' . 

V- »• ’ - ^ oV " -/ -=PO. 

v'^ ^0 * V '*' ^0 < ** i 

^ „ V ' 8 ^ 0^ t ° ^ ^ ^ a'' 

V -r ^ ■» ^ v'^ 

" °<S’ '• 

' ^°°'" 

'^‘ * • ' '” .s*> 



J' 

yf 


' ?/!.■- 'i- 

? //>1 o V ^ 


' /> - 0 N “ \'’ 

'' 

\ \ <^' ^ 


A 


'^. ^ 81 '’^-^ 
t X s 


s’’ 


> V ^ > 

* r-S^'Cv . vT, 



vs ex 

' .It '?f. ' » • >■ * 



» 

o 

« 

>• 

^ -» ^ ''^f 'i' .0 S 0 ^ \^ 

•■iir c.'^'^ * Sife'*" A'V’ * 

" A-v =Ww- A A. . 

f\ Ol ^ 0 ^^ k ^aO „ m r ^ 



UBRARY OF CONGRESS 



OOOESSBSaiB 



